


Crossing Tides

by Orita



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orita/pseuds/Orita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year of 1640, at the dusk of the golden age of buccaneering, Arthur Kirkland is sent to the Island of the Tortuga, the notorious pirate and privateer haven. He is to deliver a royal message to Francis Bonnefoy – a former privateer who had betrayed his homeland, and now terrorises the naval tradelines of France. During Arthur’s stay at the island, an unexpected connection is formed between the pirate and him.  <br/>Human/Pirate AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Through the small round window in Arthur's chamber, the view of the island, getting closer and closer, was perfect. Tortuga – the Turtle Island. A well-chosen name. Viewing from the sea, the approaching Island resembled a monstrous sea turtle, covered in giant trees growing on bare rocks where no soil could be seen.

Arthur fiddled with the bracket and pushed the hatch open. At once, the room filled with the sounds of the wind blowing through the sails and riggings, and the water splashing against the hull. He breathed in; the air hung moist and hot and salty. At that moment the ship turned, leaning into the waves, and a splash of spray hit Arthur’s reached-out hand and face, the sudden coolness of the water bringing a surprised smile to his face.

A hum of activity was drifting down from the deck above. The crew was preparing the ship for landing; orders were given and excited shouts were exchanged, ropes and oars pulled, creaking. A couple of sailors passed just by Arthur’s door. Their words reached his ears faintly.

_“...Now would you look at the shape of this island? Looks like a monster, says I… They say it’s cursed…”_

Loud laughter. _“Your first time here, ain’t it? Wait ‘till ye see the lasses of Tortuga… Bet you won’t be talking about a curse then...”_ the voices faded as the pair walked away.

Arthur rolled up his salt-stained sleeve and turned to pack his little belongings. They were nearing the end of several weeks at sea – finally, an end to the seasickness and a steady ground to stand on. And although he tried to hide it away, quiet it, for it might interfere with his calm determination – the excitement of the upcoming adventure was there. This mission was his first away from his homeland, not to mention a place like this…

For in the past years the island of Tortuga was made a base of operation for the worst type of people – _pirates._ And although he had interacted with their kind before, in the trials back in Britain, Tortuga was something else entirely. It was their kingdom. Here, these outlaws, harsh and cruel as they were to their victims at sea, developed their own independent society.

And Arthur couldn’t wait to see it.

_***_

In the past fifteen years, since the year 1625, the island was inhabited by settlers from Europe. The majority of the residents in the port town Cayona, where the Royal Navy ship Arthur arrived in had set anchor, were French. God, that damn supercilious language all around, spoken and shouted and sung. To add to that, even when English could be heard, a good portion of it was in the sailor speech that was still partly incomprehensible to Arthur.

The permanent residents of the town were either rich planters, owners of fields of tobacco and cotton, or the hosts of inns and brothels established in order to provide the needs of the changing part of the population – who were quite a strange mix of people coming and going. Some of them were traders, coming to sell or buy from the island market’s rich offering; meat and hides, tobacco and sugar, brandy and rum, guns and gunpowder, cloth for sails and cloth for dressing.

But those behind it all – those who gave the place its reason of existence and drove the gears behind the island’s economy, causing the market to flourish with their plundered goods – were the buccaneers.

From sight alone, they could be told apart from the regular folks Arthur was used to seeing. Like all sailors, they had a rolling gait from months of keeping their balance on a heaving deck. Their skin was tanned and scarred of handling sails in heavy weather – and of course, from fighting. Their outfits were practical and hard-wearing, but the higher ranked, standing apart from the rest by their aura of power, adorned themselves with silks, velvets and other things agreeable; but unlike the European gentlemen, the rich fabrics were joined in a strange mixture to shirts or trousers of ragged cloth, leather boots or handkerchiefs tied around the neck. They were all armed to the teeth with pistols and daggers and swords, their voices were hoarse and their faces were harsh.

In his neat long coat, waistcoat, knee breeches and stockings, which signed him as neither a planter nor a pirate, Arthur attracted much attention as he walked the streets of the port town. Conversations were abruptly stopped and eyes turned to watch him pass. Another disadvantage of his clothing was soon brought to his attention as the sun climbed higher in the sky, burning intolerably like it never did in England.

Nevertheless, Arthur walked on, for he had an impending mission to fulfil. In this foreign town he was to find a certain man whose looks, unfortunately, he did not know.

  ***

He had been wandering around the town for almost two hours when salvation came from an unexpected source.

A young woman tugged at his sleeve. " _Vous cherchez quelque chose?_ "

Arthur stopped. “Excuse me,” he replied shortly. “I don’t speak French.”

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, then she laughed and switched to surprisingly good English. "I'm sorry, are you looking for something?"

At this natural change of language, Arthur’s irritation mingled with curiosity, and he turned to study the woman’s face. She was pretty – dark brown curls, deep green eyes, tanned skin. Her accent wasn't French – her words were almost sing-songed, with rolling 'r's – Spanish, maybe?

“Well…” Arthur began slowly, “I _am_ searching for someone…”

The girl rested her elbow on his arm. "And who might that be, Sir?"

Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Give me a moment." Frowning, he pulled out a folded paper from his pocket, and unfolded it hastily, trying his best with his left hand while the right was being leant on. "Captain… B-Bonnefoy?" He tried his best, reading the blurred ink from the water-soaked paper.

"Oh!” the girl grinned. “Bonnefoy," she corrected his pronunciation of the name: _Bon-fuah._

Of course, he knew he had got it wrong.

"Francis Bonnefoy, right? He's a friend of mine. You're very lucky, Sir,” the lady announced, “his ship returned just yesterday from a journey. Follow me," she crossed her arm with Arthur's and began walking. Arthur tagged along, wearing the expression of one failing to catch up with the flow of unexpected events.

“Pity you do not speak French, Sir,” the woman noted absently. “That’s not good in our times. It’s an international language.”

Arthur, who on a regular day would have taken that as a call to start an argument about the superiority of English, merely blinked at her. “...Right.”

“This your first time at the island, _Monsieur_ …?”

“Uh, Kirkland. Yes, it is.”

The girl began humming to herself, as she led them back to the port where his ship first anchored.

So it was, all this time, so close to where he first landed, Arthur realised with a sigh. He had walked the whole town for nothing.

They aimed for an old inn, only a minute's walk from the port. Loud singing and stomping sounded from inside. The girl walked in without a moment of hesitation and signalled for Arthur to enter after her.

A lonely bartender stood at the bar, polishing cups and plates. Tables stood around the dimly lit room in a scattered array, several of them occupied by small groups holding lively conversations. Loud singing rose from one of the tables, to which sat a group of clearly drunk sailors.

"There he is," the girl pointed to the far side of the room, at a figure in a blue coat. From where he stood Arthur could only see the man’s back; his golden hair was tied with a silk ribbon and half-hidden in the shade of a wide-brimmed hat. He held a glass of dark red wine, and his shoulders shook with laughter at something his companion, an older seaman with a black beard, said.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look.

Just then, the girl surprisingly removed her hand from Arthur's arm (to his mixed relief and disappointment) and waved it in the air, shouting: "Francis! Hey, Fran!"

The man turned over. When he saw them, he waved back and placed down his glass on his table. " _Carmen! Quelle agréable surprise!"_ He shouted above the noise, rising and swiftly making his way to them. When he arrived, the lady reached up and kissed both of his cheeks fondly. They exchanged a few sentences in French before the man turned his attention to Arthur. He raised an eyebrow at him, not unpleasantly. " _Et… Vous êtes…?_ "

Arthur blinked. The girl, Carmen, saved him. "This gentleman here is from Britannia, Cap’n," she said sweetly – in English. "He got lost while searching for you, so I brought him here."

The pirate turned to give Arthur a long, examining look. Unlike some others present in the room, he didn't seem even a bit drunk; his blue eyes were focused and cunning. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said finally. “Mister…?”

“Kirkland,” Arthur offered his hand for a shake. The pirate took and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss on his knuckles. His eyes glimmered with amusement when he noticed Arthur's clear stunned embarrassment, as the latter pulled his hand back to his side and unconsciously wiped it on the fabric of his coat.

The girl chuckled. “I’ll be leaving you two to your business,” she decided, and floated away into the room.

“Wait, thank you for bringing me here!” Arthur called after her, disappointingly receiving no response, as she was already greeting the bartender with a friendly call.

“So, you were looking for me?”

“I was.” Arthur turned to the pirate. “I came to deliver a message...” He trailed off. How should he call this man? For some reason, Neither ‘Sir’ nor ‘Mister’ seemed fitting for a buccaneer.

“A message? From whom?”

Arthur hesitated. “Versailles,” he said at last.

The word had a clear effect on the captain. His expression darkened. “It would be better for us to speak privately then, Mister Kirkland.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” Arthur agreed. “Shall we go outside?”

Even as he spoke they turned to the door, and leaving the noises of the inn's common room behind, exited to the open, salty air.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, Monsieur Kirkland?"

They were standing at the port, facing the ocean. The setting sun coloured the sky red, gold, pink, and Bonnefoy was leaning against the railing, staring into the horizon. The wind playfully swirled free strands from his golden hair, making them fly into his face. Arthur felt a strong urge to reach over and stick it behind his ears. Instead, he reached into his own pocket and pulled out again a wrinkled piece of paper. He took a deep breath.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he began, carefully shaping the name. “Five years ago you took command of a privateer ship, is that true?"

The pirate nodded. “I did.”

“After the death of the former captain?”

Bonnefoy watched him suspiciously. “Yes?”

“He was awarded a Letter of Marque. With his death, you became the owner of it. The Letter made you an authorised pirate, as long as you serve your king's will. The king granted you permission to attack enemies of France, in this case of the conflict over the colonies – Spanish ships."

Bonnefoy`s face was now showing a slight hint of impatience. "Please, get to the point."

"So, you had a Letter of Marque. However, Mister Bonnefoy, you lost the king's trust, committing crimes against your homeland – and mine. A joined council was created to decide your fate. Fortunately for you, your king seems to be rather fond of you…” His shrugged. “He offers you a chance to atone for your crimes. Swear your loyalty and return to the right way, and you will be forgiven."

Bonnefoy raised a perfect, thin eyebrow. "Or else?"

Arthur hesitated. "...or else," he said reluctantly, “You’ll be taken to the mainland, where you will receive your punishment."

For a moment, the only sound was the waves crashing against the rocks. Then the pirate laughed, quite humourlessly. "You mean I'll be hanged.”

Arthur winced doubtfully. “Not necessarily. I’m sure they`ll consider sparing you...”

“Well, Monsieur Kirkland, if you knew what I’ve done,” answered Bonnefoy with a bitter smile, “you wouldn't be so certain.” He got up from the railing and brushed off the sand that stuck to his elbows. “When does your ship leave?”

“In about a week from now. Why?”

The pirate was already walking away, back in the direction they came from. “I’ll give you my answer until then. I will see you around,” he called over his shoulder with half a smile, “ _Monsieur_ Kirkland.”

By then, the sun has already set. As the sky turned dark, the sea became a mysterious, haunting creature. Arthur Stood there and watched the pirate go, until he disappeared from his sight.

 

***

 

It was late at night when Francis Bonnefoy returned to his ship. It was deserted and quiet, not surprisingly. Most of his men took the rare opportunity to spend the night on solid ground; it had been a long time since they came ashore. High heels clanking against the deck, Francis made his way across it. His face was clouded with worry, and dark shadows were painted under his eyes. His confident appearance from earlier disappeared with the setting sun.

Francis entered his chamber; it was dark except for the faint moonlight coming through the round window. A birdcage stood on the decorated table, covered by a black cloth. On the wall behind it hung a painting in a golden frame.

Francis let out a sigh and began to take off his coat. Suddenly a movement sounded behind him; a hand touched his shoulder. "Took you a long time,” said a voice in the darkness.

Francis almost fainted. Heart beating loudly, he turned to find Carmen, who grinned and burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh my, I'm sorry-,” she said, not sounding one bit sorry.

Francis tried to steady his breathing, clutching one hand to his chest. " _Mon dieu_ , Carmen,” he gasped. "You could have killed me."

She was still laughing, though he had to give her the credit for trying to hide it. Her shoulders twitched as she giggled quietly. "You look horrible," she noted brightly. "What happened?"

"Merci. You look wonderful."

Carmen made a face at him. "Don't try to change the subject."

"But you DO look great!" Francis protested. "You know I think red suits you best. Uh, by the way, you're blocking the closet door." He moved her aside gently.

"Oh, come on!" Carmen complained. She put her chin on his shoulder while he was struggling to hang his coat. "Tell me what happened," she nudged at his ear. That made Francis smile a little. He hanged his coat and started to unbutton his shirt. "Fine, fine," he said.  "Let's just sit down first, aye?"

Carmen snorted. “Aye? Don't even try, you're ruining the sailor speech.” She dropped onto his bed sideways, like a falling tree, and then rolled over to look up at him. Francis crumpled a ball out of his shirt and threw it away, then dropped down to sitting beside her. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and covered his face with his hands. "I'm lost," his voice came out muffled. “Carmen… I've been walking a thin line for far too long.”

Carmen chuckled. “Took them long, didn’t it? Five years. I wonder why the king hadn’t sent for you earlier.”

He turned to look at her, letting his hands fall from his face. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “Something about that young Brit gave the impression of a royal messenger. But really, how only now?” she wondered. “Maybe in honour of Gil’s memory…”

Francis winced and said nothing.

“What do you plan to do now?” she asked gently.

“What should I do?”

Carmen sighed. She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back onto the bed, and curled up beside him, placing her head between his neck and shoulder. “Forget about it for now,” she murmured. “My father always said that nighttime is the worst time to think of serious matters. Everything will look better in the morning.”

Francis shifted and turned to look at her eyes. “Talk to me about something else, then.”

“Alright,” she smiled. “I’m performing tomorrow night. You’ll be there, right?”

He nodded. “ _Bien sur._ Will you be doing it alone or…”

“I’ve got a cellist.” For a moment she seemed hesitated. “You know him… Roderich.”

Francis’ eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed suspiciously. “Edelstein? He’s back to Tortuga?”

Carmen nodded. “‘s been back for a month or so.”

“I don’t know what to make of it. Why would he--?”

“Well…” She smiled bitterly, “Seems like we all come back here in the end.”

For a moment both of them said nothing.

“What about that young man?” Carmen said with forced lightness. “Kirkland, was it?”

Francis played along. “Why, did he catch your eye?”

“Not my eye. Seemed like your type.”

“Oh, _please_.”

She frowned. “What’s with that attitude? I thought he was quite charming.”

“In a way.” Francis almost considered it, for a moment. “But he does work for the king.”

“Not his fault.” Carmen smiled wickedly. “And that could be easily changed.”

In spite of himself, Francis laughed.   


***

In another chamber room in a ship not far away, Arthur Kirkland went through crumbling old paper documents, reading one file after another in the candlelight, searching for answers. _If you knew what I've done, you wouldn't be so certain._ The words kept running through his mind. _If you knew what I've done…_

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke up with his cheek pressed against the desk and the smell of ink and paper filling his nostrils. For a moment was convinced that he was at home, waking up after falling asleep in his work.  
The realisation slowly sank into his mind with the sound of rushing waves and the rocking motion of a ship. He could hardly be farther away from home, here on this godforsaken island.  
A moment of panic – and then came the bitter understanding of his state. Practical as he was, he knew he could do nothing right now but wait. For that reason, exactly one hour later, Arthur Kirkland was already back at the port town, observing.  
The shadows were retreating as the sun rose, and the place came alive. The daily activities were beginning with a dizzying pace, the shady businesses being conducted just like any decent trade. Stolen gold glimmered; pearls and silk lay under the warm Caribbean sun, telling not a thing about the blood spilt to obtain them.  
At first sight, the place seemed lively, full of giddy atmosphere and flowing with riches. Yet, as the morning passed, Arthur became more and more aware of the darkness hiding behind the sunny streets. He witnessed men who have been sharpened and forged by the ocean into cruel, greedy beasts, boasting about merciless killing with the same pride in which they wore their jewels. He saw the starved, poorly dressed black slaves who were forced to row ships. 

Around noon, a familiar figure approached him as he wandered the town. Bonnefoy raised a hand to his wide-brimmed hat, gesturing an amused salute. He stood out in the crowd like a sunflower in a patch of thistles.  
"Bonjour, Monsieur Kirkland," the greeting poured out like music, finishing with an accentuated hum.  
Arthur nodded at him, subduing a smile that threatened to raise the corners of his mouth.  
The pirate gave Arthur a questioning look. "So quiet," he noted. "I might start thinking you're unhappy to see me."  
"Why, not at all," Arthur answered dryly. Why in the world had this man turned to piracy? He could have done so well among the French aristocrats, _That flirty way of speech – it reminds me of my last visit – Oh god, that was terrible._ Arthur was slightly surprised at the pirate’s friendly attitude; he would expect Bonnefoy not to want anything to do with him, after the message he had delivered him the day before.  
"That's great to hear, Monsieur Kirkland."  
"Arthur," Arthur retorted without thinking.  
"Huh?"  
"My name. No need for the… _Monsieur._ ”  
"Oh, alright." The pirate nodded. "Well, I'm sure you'll agree, Arthur, that this alley is not exactly a charming place to chat in."  
Arthur followed Bonnefoy as he began walking away. He was half-expecting the pirate to offer him his arm – it would have gone quite well with his general behaviour – but to his somewhat not outright relief, he didn't.  
Arthur took a deep breath. "Well, have you decided upon an answer concerning your king's offer, Mister Bonnefoy?"  
A short silence, then: "My name's Francis…Arthur." He said the name meaningfully, emphasising the absence of the unbearable ‘Monsieur’.  
"I knew that. “ Arthur sighed. _Fine_ . “Did you?"  
"Did I what? Know my name?" That laughter; sincere, surprised. It annoyed Arthur agonisingly. He frowned. "I meant, did you decide? About your answer? To the king, that is?"  
They were entering a wider street, in view of the ocean.  
"Well…" Francis scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Not yet. Though thinking of it surely made me lose sleep."  
Arthur wondered whether that comment was supposed to make him feel ashamed. He shrugged the thought away.  
"But," Francis smiled at him, "never mind that. Are you enjoying your stay here?"  
Arthur hesitated. "Well, the place is…interesting."  
"Sure it is." For some reason, the pirate found it amusing. "It takes some time to learn to like it. It has its…faults…but so does any place."  
Arthur winced. "No ordinary town holds a slave-trading market. At least… not where I come from."  
"Is that so?" Francis raised an eyebrow. "You are from Britain, am I wrong? Are you aware of the things your people do in Africa and the rest New World?"  
Arthur's cheeks wore a deep red colour. "And yours didn't?"  
Francis shrugged. "I said nothing about mine. And as you know already, I've betrayed my country – so you can see I'm not exactly an… admirer of my homeland.”  
Here he was back to the topic of that secret, his mysterious crime that Arthur was trying to discover. The night before, Arthur had searched through hundreds of letters, crime cases, lists, and reports from the last ten years. The papers held no answers for him – only more questions, if anything. There were the records of his attacks in the name of King Louis XIII; then, starting from a certain date, records of his known attacks _against_ France. There was a birth date: sometime in July 1610. A royal signature for a letter of marque – signed in 1635. A name… what was it? The name of the captain of a privateer ship, which Francis joined at the age of sixteen – so early – what was that name? He had it written somewhere…  
"Arthur?"  
Arthur blinked. "I'm sorry, I just remembered something…what were you saying?"  
Beilschmidt! That's it. That was the former captain’s name.  
"How come you have been sent here, Arthur?" Francis repeated his question. "You don't exactly seem like the type to specialise in dealing with…people like me," he snickered.  
Arthur huffed. "I was NOT supposed to be sent here in the first place. My cousin left without warning for a new colony in America, and it turns out that before he left he recommended me to take his place."  
"You seem quite unhappy about it."  
"I am."  
"You are surely one of a kind, between all the others I've seen around here who are in King Charles' service. They were all quite…unpleasant, to put it lightly."  
"Is that so?" Arthur's eyebrows rose in surprise. "It is not so different from what I thought about you, Mister Bonnefoy."  
"I know, I'm quite handsome for a pirate, am I not?"  
"Obviously, that's what I meant," Arthur snorted.  
Francis leant to get a better look at his face. "But you are blushing," he noted.  
Arthur was caught off-guard. "W-well, It's this awful weather," he made a sad attempt to save himself.  
"Right. Of course."  
  
Arthur cleared his throat. "If you don't mind me asking…"  
"Yes?"  
"How's life as a privateer?"  
Francis answered with glittering eyes, struggling to explain in words something that seemed amazing to him. He loved the ocean and the wild excitement it brought with it, the feeling of triumph when the skies clear after a storm, leaving you alive despite the wrath of such a great natural power. The special loneliness of seeing nothing but water and sky around you – especially at night – is like floating between the stars – but most of all, the freedom of choosing your actions, leading your small crew by your principles, fighting for what you deserve…  
Arthur, in spite of himself, found that he was enjoying talking to this man.  
Their conversation carried on freely. Francis had a unique way of speech; it appeared as if he couldn't just plainly say anything. His words were followed by countless hand gestures and facial expressions. When Francis described the foreign lands he had visited and the sights had seen, Arthur could see them clearly before his eyes.  
They parted later at the quay where Arthur's ship anchored. As Francis waved and walked away, Arthur found himself unable to resist a smile.  
But there wasn't any point in such thoughts, was there? Bonnefoy was a traitor. Even if he was fairly different – one would even go as far as saying special – his charms most likely were a mask for his cruelty. After all, the man made a living from robbing.  
If only he knew for sure…when they were talking, Arthur couldn't bring himself to ask.  
But there _was_ someone he could ask, he remembered.  
With sudden determination, he left the port and headed out to find them.

***  
After some searching and careful asking for directions, Arthur arrived at a distant house at the far end of town. The street was quiet. On the windowsills bloomed bright red carnations, growing out of worn-out wooden boxes.  
Arthur was about to knock on the door when he took notice of music coming from behind it. A singing voice.  
The rhythm was fast, signalled by claps and finger snapping – and yet, the sweet feminine voice he heard held endless sadness and longing.  
_"Por qué pues has llagado_  
_aqueste corazón, no le sanaste?"_  
Mesmerised, Arthur let his hand fall to his side. He did not want to – could not – interrupt the singing.  
He stood there, listening, feeling almost guilty, as if he was eavesdropping on a most secret conversation… Or listening to a person's most endeared, hidden thoughts.  
_"Y, pues me le has robado,_  
_por qué así le dejaste,_  
_y no tomas el robo que robaste?"_  
The voice – Carmen's voice – rose, trembling and questioning. It was a love song, Arthur realised. The emotion easily crossed the language barrier. Those words were not meant for Arthur's ears – his feeling of guilt grew even worse, and before he would change his mind, he raised his hand back up and knocked.  
The singing stopped and Arthur could hear footsteps getting closer.  
" _Un instant_ ! Oi, are you not two hours early? I told you I'll come at time, there's no need to remind me, Rod–" The door swung open and Carmen, with uncombed hair and a wild look in her eyes, stood at the entrance– "Oh! It's the British señor!" She called out in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry!"  
"G-good afternoon," Arthur stammered, wide-eyed.  
Carmen flashed him an embarrassed smile. She glanced awkwardly at her nightgown and bare feet. "Just a moment, if you don't mind, I'll change!" She shouted, turned back around and slammed the door in his face.  
Arthur was left to stare at the closed door. For a while moments, all was quiet. He was still trying to grasp what exactly had happened there, when the door flew back open.  
"Good afternoon", Carmen grinned at him. In some marvellous way, she managed to perfectly dress in just a few moments. She was now wearing a white shirt with puffed sleeves and a long, black skirt. Her hair was carefully tied in a bun. "I'm sorry about earlier, I thought you were someone else."  
"It's fine, really," Arthur managed to say before Carmen went back to shooting her quick, apologising sentences: “Oh, what is wrong with me? It's sweltering outside! Come in, come in!"  
"Thank you." Arthur followed her inside and took off his hat. " _I_ should apologise for interrupting you," he said.  
"Oh, never mind that," she smiled. "It's great to see you! Oh, you can sit down! Water? Coffee? Tea?"  
Arthur stumbled to catch up with the pace of the quick, accented speech. "Tea would be great, thank you," he managed.  
"All right! I'll be right back!" Carmen said. "You can sit down," she urged him, motioning to a red armchair and disappeared to another room.  
Arthur, still slightly bewildered, sat down.  
The room was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of Carmen fidgeting with porcelain. _She’s like a thunderstorm,_ Arthur mused. The room fit her personality perfectly; cheerful and terribly messy. Books were piled up on the small coffee table – no, not books, but music sheets.  
A painting on the wall caught Arthur's eye. A green-eyed dancer in a flowing red dress; her careless smile and flushed cheeks were strikingly familiar…  
Carmen returned, balancing a tray on one hand. She put it down carelessly – the teapot threatened to fall and Arthur couldn't help but wince at the sound of clanking china – and sat down in an armchair on the opposite side of the table.  
"Here you are," she poured him a cup. Arthur thanked her and stretched out his hand to hold it. He took a sip and instantly regretted it – the tea was so hot it burned his tongue.  
"I was wondering – If you don't mind me asking…" he said, "Is that you in that painting?"  
"Oh, THAT one?" Carmen glanced behind her shoulder. "Yes, that's me."  
"The artist seems to have amazing talent," Arthur said, meaning it. "He… really captured your character."  
Carmen smiled, a bit sadly. "He used to be my lover… I met him on this very island – years ago…"  
“O-oh.” Arthur was suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have–”  
Carmen raised a hand in front of her to silence him. "It's fine, really. it's not your fault anyway." She brought the teacup to her lips. "Oh, _Mierda_ ," she cursed as soon as the tea touched her tongue, "I should've known it would be too hot…” She put it back down. “So, what brings you here, Arthur?"  
Did I ever tell her my first name? Arthur wondered. He pushed the thought aside and began: "I wanted to ask you about…"  


Suddenly, the words _‘I wanted to ask you about Francis Bonnefoy,’_ seemed terribly out of place.  


"Gilbert Beilschmidt.” Arthur finished instead. “Who is he?"

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carmen's song lyrics are taken from The Spiritual Canticle by St. John of the Cross. A translation of them is:  
>  _"Why, after wounding_  
>  _This heart, have You not healed it?_  
>  _And why, after stealing it,_  
>  _Have You thus abandoned it,_  
>  _And not carried away the stolen prey?"_


	4. Chapter 4

"Gilbert Beilschmidt. Who is he?"  
Carmen's eyebrows rose, questioning. "I'm sorry?"  
Arthur laughed nervously. "I had come across the name while looking through the island's archive. It sounded familiar…yet, I have no idea where I’ve heard it before."  
Carmen put down her teacup on the table. She leaned forward, placing her elbow on her knee. "I see," she said, eyeing Arthur carefully. "Were you searching for anything special, while going through those documents of yours?"  
Arthur answered in an instant. "No, not really. I just wanted to know more about the place I am visiting." The lie came swiftly, before he even thought of it. Telling her the truth, somehow, was not an option; it meant admitting to himself, first, that he was developing a strange interest in the subject of his mission--Francis Bonnefoy.  
Carmen kept watching him silently for a few more moments. Then, she smiled understandingly. "Of course. That's reasonable."  
Either she believed him, or she decided--for her own reasons--to let him get away with it. Arthur suspected it was the latter.  
"Well, it's not surprising that the name sounded familiar to you," said Carmen. "Gilbert has gotten himself quite famous. You probably have heard the rumors..." Without noticing, she was returning to her exited, fast pace of speech."Everyone know his stories--the infamous privateer, the terror of the Spanish traders. The demon serving Louis the 13th, with red eyes, is pale as a ghost, and just as heartless! The man who keeps an yellow parrot by his side and leaves no survivors..." She tilted her head. "You MUST have heard of him."  
It did not sound one bit familiar – he would have remembered such a bizarre story if he had heard it -- but Arthur nodded all the same.  
"Most of those are just stories, though," Added Carmen. "Especially the 'no survivors' part– if that was true, who would be left to tell the stories, right?" She smiled. "Would you mind holding this?" she asked abruptly before handing a round mirror to Arthur. He took it, quite awkwardly, almost failing to catch it in his surprise.  
"I have met him only a few times, so I can't say I know much about him! I can say that he gave me the impression of a proud man with a loud laugher and a cynical view of life. And although he truly had blood-red eyes, he was definitely human!"  
As she spoke, Carmen had carefully lifted a flowerpot near her, picking up a plate of lip coloring from underneath as she moved it aside. "I first met him shortly after I joined Francis' travels. It was very exciting, to be honest--After all, Gilbert was quite the legend, even back when he was alive…"  
_"Back when he was alive?"_ Arthur repeated, a bit perplexed.  
"Yes, of course," Answered Carmen, surprised. "He died almost two years ago. You didn't know?"  
Arthur shook his head. "How did he die?"  
"Shot. Would you mind holding the mirror so that I can see myself, Arthur?"  
Arthur, noticing that he had been holding the mirror in the wrong direction, flipped it over, feeling quite dumbfounded. "What do you mean, shot? By whom?"  
Wincing at her reflection, Carmen shrugged. "One of his enemies within the court. He had plenty. They envied him because he managed to get so close to the king, even though he came from a very humble origin – and was not even French." She was coloring her lips red, taking the task very seriously.  
Arthur was still feeling agitated. "Just like that? What happened to his killer?"  
Carmen's mouth twitched, and her hand holding the lip-color brush slipped, painting a red line across her cheek. "Nothing," she said bitterly, and rubbed off the red line with the back of her hand. "Because, as you might know, in our perfect society, which is so full of equality," the words were said with a very acidic tone, "A respected family name is enough to buy you a pardon."  
To these words, Arthur's discomfort grew into real anger. "That is- that is very – not –"  
Oh! The struggle to express one's true feelings while still remaining polite.  
"That is-- god, and they call him Louis XIII le Juste! Very just he is, indeed! One man get sentenced to death for, say, disobeying the king, and another gets away unscathed after shooting his own comrade?" He called out angrily.  
"But he did die in the end," Carmen pointed out. "At sea, a few weeks after this event." She raised her gaze to look at Arthur's, meaningfully, a pair of green eyes meeting another.  
"He was killed," she went on, slowly, "by the hands of a pirate, a French pirate, avenging the death of his patron."  
It took a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in, before Arthur realized.  
Everything made sense now.  
"I should have realized it sooner," Whispered Arthur. "So that was his first act of treason?"  
Carmen nodded. "This was what you were aiming at from the beginning, wasn't it?"  
Arthur nodded, defeated. He avoided her eyes, staring down at the brownish remains in the teacup held in his hands. "That--that makes the situation even worse," he summed up the thoughts going through his head.  
I wished to know, so that I will have a reminder not to let him close to me--something to define him as treacherous, cruel--a wall against my own affection.  
"What do I do now?"  
Carmen laughed. "I seem to get that a lot, these days."  
***

_A golden haired man stood on the deck of a gold-decorated ship, his coat stained with blood, surrounded by corpses. "Please, let me live," begged the nobleman kneeling at his feet. "Please, have mercy."_  
_The pirate kicked at his side, his face twisted with rage and disgust. "How dare you," he spat. "Did you have mercy when you killed Gilbert?"_  
_The nobleman raised his widened, horrified eyes, holding his side, wincing painfully. "You're not like him, I know," he whispered. "You're kind, they all say. You never kill when you have a choice… Prove it to me… prove it to your king…"_  
_Mouth twisted with revulsion, the pirate loaded his pistol. "I bet you betrayed your comrade without batting an eyelash, you scum," he hissed. "Shot him with your disgusting hypocrite smile…" He aimed his weapon at the nobleman's head. "Does this thing deserve to live, boys?" He shouted to the men who were standing at a distance, watching him with silent respect._  
_Cries of rage rose from around them. These men wanted blood spilled. Their god was dead; the killer had to pay for his actions._  
_Satisfied, their leader turned back to look at the desperate accused. "I guess that's it, then."_  
_"WAIT!" cried the man now sentenced to death. "If you kill me, you'll become an enemy of France, a traitor! You'll be hanged not long after I die--"_  
_The pirate pressed the trigger. With a loud gunshot, the nobleman's body flew backwards, hitting the wooden floor. The pirate crew bursted into roars, quickly silenced by their leader's raised hand._  
_"The man had a point," he said, smiling bitterly. "This was an act of treason." He looked away from the corpse's head, a shapeless red mess. "Have you left anyone alive? Bring them to me."_  
_A shaking, horrified boy was pushed forward. His hands were tied behind his back, and his shirt was torn._  
_"How old are you?"_  
_The boy was almost too terrified to speak. His eyes were filled with tears. "S-s-ixteen, sir."_  
_The pirate's eyes widened. His hand, still holding the pistol, was shaking. "We will anchor soon," he said to the boy, quietly. "Get on a ship to France. Pass a message from me, to your king Louis. Tell him this…" The pirate closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "Tell him that Francis Bonnefoy declares himself a traitor. His up-to-now loyal servant will not go on serving such a corrupted, oppressing government, a law that pardons a murderer because of his respected family name. pass the king this promise: the French maritime trade lines will cease being safe for travel."_  
_The boy nodded once, a small, jittery nod._  
_The pirate made a strange gesture, as if meaning to touch the boy's shoulder. The boy flinched and jumped backwards. A painful expression appeared on the pirate's face, and he stopped his hand midair and brought it to his side. "I am sorry," he said. The wind snatched away his voice, making it into a quiet whisper. The boy heard it. And although he nodded again, the pirate knew he would never-- how could he? – accept the apology._  
***  
Francis slammed an empty glass on the bar and shook away the memories. "Pour me another one, will you?" He smiled tiredly at the bartender. The little inn was almost empty. He had arrived there early, before the music and chattering filled the place. That was, for sure, a bad thing. For whenever he was alone, Francis couldn't stop himself from thinking.  
What should I do? What should I do? My freedom or my life? My pride and beliefs, or my future? And what about my crew? Any choice I make will affect them. What about Carmen, what about Gil- what would he want me to do?  
Francis rubbed his forehead, trying to think clearly. The thoughts brought the memories with them, making the task of thinking clearly almost impossible.  
"Captain, your wine," said the bartender, a fierce girl with tangled cream hair. Francis thanked her and took it.  
_"Wine again?"_ He could hear Gilbert's snarky voice. _"Who the hell do ya' think you are, Francis!? Your pisswit of a king? Have some beer, or scotch, or anything else worthy of a real man's consumption."_  
Francis winced. He raised the glass in front of him, so the last sunrays from the setting sun dispersed in the purple red liquid. _Cheers. For you._  
_"You know, you are a very strange pirate indeed, Francis,"_ Gilbert would note with a smirk. Francis sipped from his glass, hardly tasting the bitter-sharp flavor.  
The inn was slowly filling up; some of the visitors greeting him with a nod, a wave of their hand or a smile. The members of his crew bowed their head with respect, a few stopping to inform him with the news about the trade of their findings.  
He was halfway through his fourth glass when Carmen arrived, together with her performance partner; a serious looking man carrying a cello. As he went aside to tune his instrument, Carmen headed over to Francis. "You're not drunk yet, are you?" she asked, amused.  
Francis wrinkled his nose. "Really, I thought you knew me better than that."  
"Great," Carmen glanced around them, and then drew closer. "You won't believe who visited me today," She whispered very loudly into his ear. "Your friend, the British señor with the mighty eyebrows."  
Francis frowned. "Monsieur Kirkland? Did he?"  
"Sí, he asked about you. Well- not exactly about you, but he did, indirectly."  
Francis looked even more disturbed. "Quoi? What am I supposed to gather from that?"  
Carmen shrugged. "I don't know, figure it out yourself. He's not MY royal messenger."  
"He's not mine either!" protested Francis. "I first met him YESTERDAY-"  
"And, he may be coming here later. He wanted to see me perform, so I invited him. So, uh, be ready in case he'll appear."  
Francis stared. "Carmen, dear, you are a disaster."  
"Why? Can't I invite one of my guests to my performance?"  
Francis shook his head. "I was planning on having a quiet evening, and now I'll have to be--"  
"Sober?" suggested Carmen. She burst into laughter at Francis' expression. "Anyway, I'm not even sure if he will come. He left when Roderich arrived," Carmen pointed at the cello player, "and said that he'll maybe come later. But, cheer up; he might as well flee at the sight of your scowling face."  
Francis put his face in his hands. "Don't you have some Spanish singing and dancing to do, or something?"  
Carmen pondered about it. "I guess I do, now that I think about it. Cheer for me, will you?" She grinned and left to join her cellist.  
***  
Arthur did arrive, at the end, though it never became a burden for Francis, for Arthur did not even notice his presence. It was already dark outside when he entered the inn, carrying a suitcase. The place was crowded and noisy. Francis was speaking to one of the younger sailors of his ship, hidden in the shadows in the other side of the room.  
Arthur exchanged a few words with the innkeeper, who sat beside the young bartender, both clapping with the rhythm of the song. A room for one, he requested. He was handed a small steel key with a number etched on it. Yes, he really had to leave the dusty ship chamber. If he had to suffer another night of the ship's rocking and stirring, he would go insane.  
After receiving the key, Arthur retreated to a small corner, which he deemed quiet enough.  
The cellist was defiantly talented, he thought. As for Carmen, the painting on her wall, amazing as it was, didn't come close to describing the real beauty of her art. On stage, she became living music, moving with careless perfection almost too great to be real. Her sweet singing voice mixed perfectly with the cello music.  
She was performing the same song Arthur had heard her singing earlier, through the wooden door of her house. When she noticed his presence, she sent Arthur a smile.

Arthur stayed for a few songs. Then crossed the room, bumping into a swirling couple in his way, muttering an apology and dragging his suitcase up a creaking staircase, to the room he had ordered.  
It was plain and quite poorly furnished, but it was clean, and most importantly- it stood on solid ground.  
Arthur was preparing himself for sleep, and with the sweet sound of music still ringing from downstairs, he was almost sure he would fall asleep immediately.  
That was, until another voice joined the singing. It was a man's voice, bright and cheerful, French-accented, and undeniably Francis Bonnefoy.


	5. Chapter 5

He was almost asleep when he heard it. It was the second role in the play, a tone matching for Carmen's, answering it. Arthur’s eyes blinked open. 

_“Vuélvete, paloma,_   
_que el ciervo vulnerado_   
_por el otero asoma_   
_al aire de tu vuelo, y fresco toma.”_

His Spanish wasn’t bad at all.   
So was his singing voice.   
Arthur pulled the blanket over his head, determined to fall asleep anyway. 

_“Mi Amado, las montañas, Los valles solitarios nemorosos, Las ínsulas extrañas, Los ríos sonorosos, El silbo de los aires amorosos.”_

How… strange. Arthur could almost, almost admit that--possibly--well, it would be such a pitty if that man would be hung.   
Off course, that thought didn’t last for long.

***  
He woke up at night, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. It took him a few moments to realise what woke him up. The window was open, and the wind made it bang forcefully at it’s frame. Arthur got up, wincing as his feet touched the cold floor, and reached for the window.  
Half asleep, Arthur noticed that the singing from downstairs had stopped, changing into rythimical stomps and claps followed with simple, repeated lines. Still, he could hear the ocean in the distance.   
_Isn’t that nice?_  
He closed the window, sealing it firmly. The sound of the waves, sadly, dimmed.   
His feet were cold, but his throat was dry as paper.   
Slowly, he headed for the door and opened it. He could get some water downstairs. Arthur walked down the dark stairs, wincing and blinking when he arrived the first floor which was lit brightly.   
Everyone was on their feet, the tables gone from sight. The noise was defeaning.   
There was a jug of water on the bar, Arthur remembered. He worked his way there, evading the dance floor and walking near the walls, suddenly very aware of his bare feet and wrinkled shirt.   
Thankfully, the space beyond the bar was empty. It took him a while to find a cup that wasn’t suspiciously dirty. At last, he found one somehow satisfying, after checking it from different angles and wiping it on his shirt. As for the water jug--well, he couldn’t possibly guess who had used it before, but there was nothing he could do about that.   
A sudden noise sounded behind him just as he was pouring himself water. A person was walking towards him, steps loud and uneven. Arthur placed the jug back down quickly, thankfull for not spilling the water, to find himself facing--  
 _Oh, god, NO. NOT NOW._  
“Ah, monsieur Kirk- eh, Arthur!”  
Francis Bonnefoy, with dark circles beneath his hazy eyes, his hair untied and falling messily over his shoulders, wearing a sweaty silk shirt torn at the sleeve.   
Arthur backed away intinctively. “Good evening,” he said suspiciously. He sipped from his water.   
“Thank god I found you,” Francis whispered very loudly. “you MUST save me.”  
Arthur froze. _“what?”_  
Francis looked around with half lidded eyes. “You see… I was dancing, and then I slammed my toe into a table foot. And so I don’t feel like dancing anymore.” He waved his hand in the air, drawing an unclear gesture.   
“And what does that have to do with me?” Arthur said disgustedly, too tired to answer politely. He took his cup sharply and sipped from it.   
“You pay me company, off course,” Francis answered as if it was obvious.   
Arthur made an attempt to escape sideways. “I am sorry, mister Bonnefoy,” he gritted his teeth, “but it’s very late--I am tired, you’re drunk, and both of us need sleep.”  
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Francis answered with a crooked grin, “Which is not so far away, so I better enjoy life while I can. Fine, fine,” he crossed his hands. “Go to sleep. Your loss.”  
Arthur spun back at him. “What did you just say?”   
Francis began repeating his last sentence but Arthur cut him off. “No, not that. What did you just say about dying?”   
Francis shrugged. _“A pirate dies young,”_ he sung to a famous tune. “Besides, there’s that king thing, the one you informed me of.”  
“Well,” Arthur knew there was no good speaking to Francis in this state, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You won’t die if you make the RIGHT CHOICES.”  
“Oh?” The pirate tilted his head to a side. “And what are those right choices?”  
“Well, there’s one I can think off right now,” Arthur’s voice was dripping sarcasm, “Returning to your king’s service and not being an arrogant fool.”  
Francis scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Is that the right choice?” he wondered. “For whom? For me? For you? For the house of Bourbon? For France?” he mused. “And what makes it _right?_ ”   
Arthur stared unbelievebly. “Don’t you want to live?”   
“We’re all gonna die in the end, it’s just a matter of time. Question is how much you get to live in this period of time, if you get what I mean.”   
The uncaring way he treated the whole issue made Arthur inexplicably angry. “No, I don’t get what you mean.”   
“The… point… is,” Francis wrinkled his forhead and seemed to lose his train of thought. “The castles of France are full fed-up pigs wearing crowns and silk, and that’s the point.”  
Arthur slammed the cup onto the bar and lowered his voice. “Do you have an idea what you’ve just said?” he hissed. “Do you wish to die _that_ badly?”  
Francis grinned like it was all very amusing. “Look, Arthur,” he said, “You know very little. In your soul, you’re still a rich little boy who never knew loss or hunger. So I can’t imagine you’d understa--”  
“You better shut your mouth, Bonnefoy” Arthur warned. “And you better be thankful for the choice the king gave you.”  
Francis chuckled, his head rolling aside, and kept speaking as if Arthur said nothing. “Well, I won’t burst your bubble. Keep on living in your mansion, with servants to serve you tea and wipe yer ass... keep on admiring those tyrants sitting on the thrones of Europe and keep feasting on the best the world has to offer!”  
“Don’t you DARE speak to me like that!” Arthur yelled, his face burning with rage, clenching his fists. “You think you know everything, do you?” he spat. “Well you know nothing of--”  
“ALL THAT,” Francis raised his voice, continuing his speach nonethelessly, “All that while millions suffer and strive to stay alive, including the peasants who grow your food, the workers making your shoes, the gardener at your mansion and the WHORES you take to bed every night to forget your loneliness--”  
“That’s IT!” Arthur shouted. “You shut your bloody mouth or else--”  
“Or else what? You’ll hang me?” Francis giggled. “Thought you’re doing that anyway.”  
Arthur opened his mouth to answer sharply, his jaw shaking, and closed it back again. “I’m done with this shit,” he said quietly. “Good night, Francis Bonnefoy.” He spun on his heels and walked away, dissapearing up the stairs.  
***

It was far past midnight. Usually, Carmen would be asleep at this time -- but now, she was searching for a friend. The darkness didn’t bother her; she hummed to herself as she walked the darkened streets. She got tired of her shoes a while ago, so now she was holding them in her hands, swinging them as she went.  
She was getting closer to were she knew she would find him. It was at the far end of town, where the buildings were fewer and the distance between them grew. Here, The road turned from tiled pavement to sand. This was the farthest one could get away from the ocean, without getting lost in the wild realms of the island.   
Carmen stopped after the last house and looked around her. Left or right? She wasn’t sure if she remembered where it was she found Francis the last time.   
Left, Carmen decided. She nodded firmly and walked off the road. The sand was cool at her feet, and the palm tree leaves cast strange, moving shadows at the ground. The branches rustled quietly in the wind. In spite of herself, Carmen shivered and looked back to the warm lights of the town.   
Then, she took hold over herself and headed straight into the darkness, into a circle of trees and grass. Yes, she was at the right place. Just a little further, past the blooming araceae flowers.   
There. A figure sunk to the ground, it’s back against a tree trunk, head down. Carmen approached with a feeling of relief. “Francis?” she called quietely.   
The figure raised it’s head, blue eyes gleaming in the dark. There was no reply.  
She sat down beside him, brushing a tangled lock of hair out of his eyes. Francis sligtly turned his face away.   
“It’s late,” she said softly in French. “It’s time to go back.”  
Francis shook his head once. “I can’t… sleep,” he answered with a voice hoarse and tired.  
Carmen’s face twisted in pain. She pulled her shaking hand back to her lap, mouthing the beginning of a question. Francis spoke again before she could voice it.   
“I can’t stop _thinking_ …” His head dropped forward again, his hands covering his mouth.  
Carmen had so much to say, but she knew it wasn’t the time. “I’ll stay with you,” she offered simply.   
“The sound of the waves,” Francis answered, staring down.   
“Come to my place, then.”  
Silence. Francis was looking at her again. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he said. “It’s…”  
“Shh. How many times have I spent the night at your chamber?” Carmen effortly put on a smile. “It’s about time I pay you back for it.”   
“It’s not the same th--”  
“It’s alright.”   
Francis fell silent again. Then, at last, nodded. “Thank you, my rose,” he said quietly.   
Carmen rose to her feet and turned to help Francis up, offering a hand to the man who was, despite all, so terribly broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for the song lyrics - again, from the Spritual Canticle:
> 
> "My dove, come back,   
> The wounded deer  
>  Lingers on the hill   
> As your flight fans and refreshes him."
> 
> "O my beloved, the mountains And hidden wooded valleys, Fabled islands, And roaring rivers, The whistling of love-laden breezes."


	6. Chapter 6

Francis brought himself to sitting, freeing himself from a tangle of blankets. He blinked a few times at the bright sunlight washing through the window. The room was familiar; carnations blooming at the windowsill, sheet music scattered everywhere. The other half of the bed was cold, blankets already fold and arranged.  
A set of clothes were carefully placed on the floor beside his bed, neatly folded.   
Francis slowly, unsteadily got up. He took the clothes from the floor, giving a little smile at the pure smell of soap. Clean, dry clothes were a rare treat for the seafarer; everything on board was bound to get soaked with salty water.  
Francis changed. Sand dropped from his torn shirt as he took it off. His boots were placed near the door; the once-shining leather was now scrapped and dirty, the heels covered with dirt. As for the coat, it was nowhere to be found--he must have left, it, somewhere on the island, last night. Francis sighed sadly.  
God, he felt so ashamed.   
His head was pounding.   
“Morning,” he announced miserably.  
Loud footsteps sounded and Carmen appeared over the corner, carrying a tottery pile of dishes. “You’re awake!” She remarked. “How are you feeling?”  
Francis winced and brought his hand to his forehead. “Awful.”  
Carmen lowered the tower of plates and flashed a grin at him. “You deserve it.”  
“I know, I do.” Francis smiled back. “Let me help you with those plates…”  
“Oh, no!” Carmen wrinkled her nose. “I won’t trust you with anything fragile at your current state. Wait for me in the living room, I’ll make us coffee.”   
She began walking away. Francis called after her: “At least let me help with _something_!”   
Carmen paused. “You can decide what to do with your clothes from yesterday,” she offered. “I don’t think they’re in a wearable state, so maybe we can turn them into rags or something.”  
She winked and disappeared back where she came from.  
Francis gave his ruined clothes a heartbroken look. Yes, they couldn’t be saved.   
Maybe only the boots.   
He took them with one hand, rubbing his forehead painfully with the other, and walked to the living room.   
Very little had changed since the last time he visited. When was that? Five, maybe six months ago? The clothes piled higher. The flowers grew, there was a new clock on the wall. And that was it. Francis turned to the wall facing the window, knowing already what he’ll find there--Of course, the oil painting still hung there, the one she got from that stupid, long-gone artist boy.  
“Don’t you think it will be better for you to take it off?” He had asked her once. “Maybe it would be easier if you let go of the memory…”  
Carmen had only turned to look at him with eyes red from crying. She crooked her mouth into a strange smile and, with an almost-at-tears voice, said: “but I look so good in that p-painting, it will be a pity to throw it away.” She had made an effort to laugh and broke into a sob. 

Francis looked away from the painting. That was so long ago--Gilbert was still alive back then, and he himself was a new-to-his-post vice-captain with self esteem up in the clouds.   
“Hey ho,” Carmen entered the room behind him and carelessly dropped a tray on the low table. She sunk into a sofa and settled comfortably with her legs crossed, her fingers wrapping around a steaming cup. “Sit, stop staring at the floor,” she ordered Francis.   
With his hand to his forehead, he sat down at the space beside her on the sofa. Then, he carefully took the other cup.   
For a while, none of them spoke. They stared at the window and sipped quietly. Carmen twirled one of her curls around her finger, clearly waiting for him to speak.   
“Thanks again,” Francis said finally.   
“No problem, Fran.”  
“And I’m sorry for making you worry, yesterday night.”  
“Ha!” Carmen rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I wasn’t worried. Stop being dramatic.”  
“Alright.” Francis chuckled.   
“How are you, really?”  
Francis leaned backwards. “As for now, it seems that anyway, no matter which option I choose, my adventures have come to an end.”  
 _Right, the king’s message._ Carmen looked at him tiredly. “Well, some people look at death as an adventure.”   
“That’s right...” He paused. “But, I sort of want to live, if you get what I mean.”  
“I know, I was joking. I want you to live, too.”  
Francis glanced at her. “Why, Thank you!”   
“But I _really_ don’t get what’s all the fuss about. So now you lost your king’s support. You’ll have to flee for your life, and fight to survive... because you won’t go back to the king’s service, will you? But the danger is a part of this life you chose, and you have to deal with it. It only became _formal_ now.”  
“I was never a real ‘pirate’ before.” Francis closed his eyes. “It was all sort of game, I hid behind the kingdom’s power. And after they murdered Gil… I never paused to _think_ of what I’m doing--” his voice faded.   
“In short,” Carmen summed it up pertinently, “you have no idea how to be a criminal.”  
Francis hesitated. “That’s--that may be it,” he admitted.  
Carmen nodded. “Alright.”  
“Alright?”  
“You’ll learn.”   
They sat in silence, again. “So that’s how it is.” Carmen placed an empty cup on the table. “What’s the matter, then?” she asked, looking much more serious now.   
“What do you mean?”   
“There’s something else on your mind.”   
Francis moved his head in something that may have been a nod.   
“What have you _done_ last night?”  
“Ah.” He hesitated. “I fucked up hilariously, that’s what I did.”  
It wasn’t the first time she heard such a story from him, not at all. “Who was it?”  
“Stop, I don’t even want to think about it.”  
A short silence.   
“Alright, it's not important anyway.” Carmen smiled. “You’ll have to find them, whoever they are, and apologize for your behavior last night. Make up for it. That would be enough.”  
Francis sighed. “I don’t think It’s that simple.”   
“ _Life is really simple, we are the ones who insist to complicate it,_ ” Carmen quoted in refined Spanish.  
“Who said that? It`s not bad.”  
“A friend, a girl from the brothel. I think she`s sort of wise. She came from far away.”  
“How did she get to a place like this?”  
“How did we get to a place like this, Francis?”  
That made him laugh. “I don`t know--something went very wrong, or very right, depending how you look at it.”  
“It`s not that bad, this life. I dance and sing on a godforsaken island, I have a cellist and a pirate who brings me pearls of dead noblemen. Not bad at all.”  
Francis placed his empty cup beside hers. He was smiling now, and his head was starting to clear. “Thank you. Really.”  
“Please, I told you to stop being dramatic.”

***  
“Alright, I`m going out!” Carmen shouted from the doorway. She was wearing a bright yellow dress and a hat, holding a straw basket. “Don`t forget to lock when you leave, the key`s in the drawer over there!”  
“Mm-hmm,” Francis nodded vigorously. He was holding a ribbon in his mouth and pulling back his hair with both hands.   
“Is there something else you need?”  
“You’ve done more than enough, cher.”  
Francis pulled out the ribbon from his mouth and, with some effort, tied it around his hair. Then, he proceeded to carefully put a golden hoop into the earring hole in his left ear.   
“I’m out, then!” Carmen called. She swung the door open -- and let out a little shout of surprise.   
A person who just arrived at the front door jumped back to avoid the opening door. Carmen pushed up her hat to get a better look at him. “Oh my,” she said. “Good morning.”   
“Morning,” Arthur Kirkland answered quickly. At his place at the far end of the room, Francis froze, with his hand still at his ear.  
“I won’t interrupt you for long,” said Arthur worriedly. “Your friend forgot something at the inn last night, so if you could give it back to him--”  
“Oh, life is full of coincidences,” Carmen cut him off. “Come in now. Francis is here too, so you can hand it to him yourself.”  
“I--I see,” said Arthur faintly. He sounded very unwilling.   
“Well, I’m really on a hurry, so I’ll be leaving you two to this!” Carmen announced. “I’ll see you two around…”   
The door clicked shut.   
Francis emerged from behind the corner. He cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said, and immediately felt very stupid.   
“You forgot your coat,” said Arthur shortly. “Thought you might want it back.”  
“Thank you, _Arthur._ ”   
Arthur handed over the light blue coat without meeting Francis’ eyes. “Don’t mention it.”   
There was a short, awkward silence, and then Arthur turned to leave. “Have a good day,” he said.   
“Wait,” called Francis. “Where are you going now?”   
“Back to my ship,” Arthur said, as if stating the obvious. “There’s work to be done.”   
“I’m going to the port too. We can walk together.” Francis was already moving to grab the key.   
Arthur’s mouth twitched and he walked straight to the door. He didn’t reply.   
Francis cursed under his breath and went quickly after him, holding the coat under his arm. He closed the door and locked it, then placed the key under one of the flowerpots.   
By the time he finished, Arthur was already walking away down the steep road. He was narrowing his eyes at the sun that shone directly in front of him, reflecting from the surface of the sea.   
“Wait, Arthur, please,” Francis hurried to catch up with him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for last night. I accused you of things you never were, or did, and I shouldn’t have.”  
Arthur took a moment to think of his answer. “I’m not angry at you,” he said carefully.   
Francis smiled with relief and open his mouth to speak, only to be cut off.  
Arthur went on speaking. “But,” he said, “Especially after last night, I’ve been wondering whether it’s a good idea to... _befriend_...you. I don’t think it will do good to either of us.” Stubbornly, he kept looking straight forward, avoiding Francis’ stunned eyes.   
“Why is that?”   
“Our beliefs are too different, and we both live by them. Therefore, our lives are too far apart.” Arthur answered tiredly. He didn’t bother finding the words to explain more.   
“We are not as different as you think. We already understand each other much more than you admit to yourself. If we’d met in any other situation--”  
“We could have been friends,” Arthur agreed, not without regret. “But this is the case. You know just as well as I do, but you never _think_. You just live ‘for the moment’.” Without realizing, he’d turned to look at Francis, his voice rising. “But sometimes this method can’t work! In about week, this story will end in one of two possible ways: either you go back to serve your king and I go back to mine; Or, you receive your sentence--they may spare you, but there is always the chance that I will have to take you to the gallows. So do tell me, why in the world should I get to know you better?”   
Francis fell silent.   
“I’m sorry, I went too far,” Arthur said quietly, still not looking at him.   
“At least you’ll have a great story to tell your children,” Francis noted. “You have one already, but it could be so much more interesting.”   
Arthur winced. “It won’t have an ending that a child will like to hear.”  
“It will be better than anything you’ll get back in England. You’ll never get a chance like this again.”  
Arthur nodded slightly, an almost invisible motion. “I can’t say I didn’t think of it.”  
“Because you’re still not sure about your decision,” Francis guessed. “Because it will always stay your biggest ‘what if I had…’”.   
Finally, he caught Arthur eyes. “Maybe it will be the best as a ‘what if’,” said the latter.  
“Maybe you want to be convinced.”   
For a moment, Arthur just stared at him, as if trying to decipher his meaning. Then, he forced his eyes away again. “I don’t know,” he said, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

In an annoying display of stubbornness, Francis returned the same afternoon, a few hours after their conversation. At that time, Arthur was sitting at the desk in his small inn room, making do with the space he had. Leaning backwards and balancing on two of his chairs’ four legs, he frowned at his notebook, rubbing the edge of a blue pen at his lip in concentration. After a few moments, he landed the chair back on the floor, loudly, and bent down his head to continue his messy, blue-inked trail of words.

“Sir?” his door screeched open. A child’s head peeked from behind it. “You have a visitor waiting downstairs.”

Arthur gave him a distant look, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Who?”

“It’s _Francis Bonnefoy_ , sir,” answered the boy with his eyes wide open, as if he envied Arthur for having such interesting guests.

Arthur blinked out of his trance. He closed his notebook abruptly, a bit too loudly.

“Thank you for notifying me.” He didn’t move.

The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Sir? Should I tell him to come in or--”

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

“O--off course, sir,” the boy hurried away, closing the door behind him.

Arthur dropped notebook and the pen on the table and slid them away from him, to the wall. Slowly, he placed his elbows on the table and leant his forehead on his palm, letting out a long, tired sigh. After a moment or two he got to his feet; with careful, measured movements, he put his shoes on and laced them up, taking his coat off the rack and putting it on.

Arthur took a deep breath and left the room.

***

"I didn’t think you’d come down,” Francis admitted. They were at the same railing near the sea where they first spoke. Francis was still wearing that plain, clean white shirt from that morning, with a piece of blue cloth tied at the waist. Just like the first time, his hair fluttered in the wind. So did Arthur’s coat, flapping at his legs and flying around him.

Arthur glanced sideways at his companion. He liked the pirate much better this way, he noticed miserably, without the wide-brimmed hat and the shitty attitude.

“I’ve been thinking of what you said,“ Arthur told him.

“And...?” Francis spoke with a way-too-steady voice.

Arthur put both hands in his pockets, and exasperatedly looked up at the clouds. “I’m here, am I not? Draw your own conclusions.”

Francis dropped his calm-and-nonchalant act and stared.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Arthur frowned. “Better make it worth it.”

“Ah – Right,” Francis replied quickly. He inhaled sharply, with his eyebrows still raised, and a hesitant, flickering beginning of a smile. "I...was wondering if you’d like to see my ship.”

Arthur smiled faintly. “I won’t mind.”

***

 

Francis’ ship was brigantine of twelve guns, proud and beautiful, its two masts soaring up into the sky. Her hull was coloured dark blue, almost black, and she bore a strange figurehead at the front; a golden-haired woman with the lower body of a fish, her face tightened into a terrifying, unnatural grin. With one hand she raised a seashell horn to her lips, and her other hand held a spear.

“This is my flagship,” Francis introduced proudly, looking up from where they stood on the quay.  “ _Freiheit.”_

Slowly, Arthur repeated the name, then looked at his companion questioningly. “...Freedom?”

Francis cocked a curious eyebrow. “You speak German?”

“Not really,” Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “I remember bits and pieces from studying literature -- that was a long time ago.”

At that, Francis looked even more curious. He opened his mouth as if to ask about it, then seemed to change his mind. “I tried learning it too, in the past,” he admitted, “but I was never any good, so I gave up at some point. The pronunciation was too much for me.”

“The ‘ch’,” Arthur agreed, still looking thoughtful. “Why did you name the ship this way, then?”

“Oh- it wasn’t me,” Francis blinked, slightly surprised. “It’s an old ship. She bore this name before I even joined the crew. The former captain was the one who chose it.”

“The former captain -- Gilbert Beilschmidt, is it?”

Francis tilted his head. “Yes, how did you know?”

Arthur cursed himself silently. If Francis realises he’s been asking around about him, sticking his nose into business not his own… He could just as well throw himself overboard, and it would be better than dealing with the humiliation.

“I just -- it was in your files, I read them before I got here.”

“I see,” Francis noted, “so they have files about me? What else did they say?”

“Eh,” Arthur made a face. “It didn’t say much about _you_ ,” he said honestly. “It was mostly a record of your… _operations,_ stating the value of stolen property for each, the number of,” he winced -- “wounded and dead, et cetera…”

Francis looked just a tad bit disappointed. “I see.” Then he shook his head. “Why are we still standing here? I'm supposed to show you the ship! After you, Arthur.”

Hesitantly, Arthur began walking up the gangplank. As he got closer, he saw that there were many people on the deck, working, chatting or just resting in the warm sunlight. They turned to look when the two arrived; some eyes lingered on Arthur for a moment, suspicious or curious. When Francis stepped onto the deck beside him, someone waved his hand and shouted a welcome. Some got to their feet, nodding respectfully.

As Arthur watched, a figure hurried over to them. It was a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, barefoot, his hair dark. He had one of his hands spread, and at the beginning, Arthur thought it was a welcoming gesture, until the boy got close enough for him to see. On his arm stood a bird, a yellow parrot, its claws digging into his flesh. The boy’s expression was nervous. _“Capitaine, il se libère de sa cage et nous ne savions pas quoi faire avec lui...”_ he spoke quickly, trying to keep the bird as far away from his face as possible. He trailed off as the parrot made several sharp clicking noises.

Francis chuckled. “ _Ça ne fait rien_ ,” he said lightly, “ _Donne-le moi._ ”

The boy, encouraged, moved his stretched arm closer and carefully ushered the parrot onto Francis’ arm with his free hand. The boy let out a relieved breath when the bird left his arm and shook his right hand about, returning the feeling to it. He said something else in French, clearly a question, and Francis answered absent-mindedly with his eyes fixed on the bird, that was now making its way up his sleeve. The boy bowed his head and hurried away with a quick salute in their general direction.

“Your cabin boy?” Arthur asked, following the boy with his eyes as he ran to the far edge of the deck, disappearing down a wooden staircase.

“Oh, yes,” Francis confirmed fondly. “Pierre. Cabin boy today, captain of a fleet tomorrow - I’m quite sure we’re all going to hear about him.”

Arthur almost smiled at the warmness in his tone. Then he remembered -- this boy, if he takes the past Francis wants for him, is going to be a pirate. What kind of stories will they hear about him? The kind of stories people hear about Francis himself? Maybe it’d be better if they don’t hear about him.

But of course, he didn’t voice that unpleasant thought. “You were quite young, too, when you first joined a privateer ship, weren’t you?”

Francis hummed in agreement, starting to carefully stroke the parrot’s feathers. “About sixteen. Now that I think of it, the same age Pierre is now.”

Arthur opened his mouth to ask, _why,_ and then changed his mind. It wasn’t the time for such questions. Instead, he turned his attention to the parrot, which was now making strange humming noises. “Can it talk?” he asked curiously.

Francis laughed. “No, I don’t think they are talking parrots in this colour. It would have been pretty neat if he could, wouldn’t it? Though I bet he would know only naval insults and pick-up lines, considering my crew’s sense of humour.”

“You’d be the one to teach him all of those, don’t put the blame on others,” Arthur replied automatically, his tone casual. "Well, I had my hopes up. This bird has an awfully bad reputation, in relation to its size.”

“Don’t you underestimate him!” Francis called, half seriously. “This little thing can be vicious. It bites and scratches like a creature from hell, I swear. I’m quite sure he gave me some scars that still last.”

“Really,” Arthur eyed the bird dubiously. “Doesn’t look very dangerous to me.”

The parrot glared back at him with a shining red eye. It was somewhat unnerving.

“Does it have a name?” Arthur asked.

Francis sighed. “He has a name, but…”

“...But what?”

Francis moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “Remember I told you this ship was old, and that it was Gilbert who named it?”

“Yes…?” Arthur wondered what he was getting what. “And?”

“Well, this parrot is also pretty old, and Gilbert named it, too… and...” Francis stopped again, hesitating.

“And what???”

Francis sighed dramatically. “His name is _Gilbird.”_

“... _What_?”

“That’s his name. As in, Gilbert, but, uh, it’s terrible.” He clasped his hand to his chest and shook his head.

Arthur gaped. “You must be kidding me.”

“Sadly, I’m not.”

Arthur gave the bird a pitying look. “That’s probably the worst pet name I’ve ever heard. Even as a joke, it’s terrible.”

“It is, right?”

“Right.”

They watched the bird, sharing sad and pitying glances, then burst out laughing at the same time. Satisfied with the attention, the parrot turned its head from one to another and hooted proudly, which made them laugh even louder.

With some effort, they regained control of themselves a few moments later. Francis wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “I should be giving you the tour around here, am I not,” he asked, slightly choked.

“You are,” Arthur agreed, his shoulders still shaking.

“Alright then.” Francis turned around. “The part we’re standing on is the main deck. Out of the two masts, the mainmast is the second and taller one. Do you see how the deck is flushed and flattened, without a break or step?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It wasn’t this way at first,” Francis told him. “Back when I was carpenter’s mate under Gilbert’s command I was told how they took over this ship, that at first belonged to the Spanish navy, and bore the name _Constante._ After capturing the ship, seeing that she was handsome and frigate-built, Gilbert’s crew decided to keep it for their own use. They fitted it for their use; removed the forecastle and lowered the quarterdeck, creating an unobstructed fighting platform. And of course, the ship was renamed.”

“Right.” Arthur took a moment to process this new information. “The Spanish navy; so it was when you’re former captain was privateering for France.” His eyes followed the movements of the sailors on board. “You said this was your flagship. Does that mean you also have others?”

“Oh, yes. A sloop of sixty men; this brigantine is of ninety. We carry out most of our attacks in at least two vessels. Sometimes we join forces with other pirates from the area.”

“One hundred and fifty men, under your command; that is much.”

Francis twisted his mouth doubtfully. “I made one of my men captain over the sloop, so it’s not directly under _my_ command. And the fleet is much smaller than it used to be, back in Gil’s time.”

“Does it have to do,” Arthur suggested carefully, “with you turning from privateering to piracy? _”_

“Ah. It might,” Francis forcefully gave a crooked smile,  “but I believe he was just a greater commander than I am.”

After that, both of them fell quiet for a few moments. The parrot flapped its wings, chirping loudly and catching their attention. Francis, glancing down at it, stroked the feathers on the back of its head with his knuckle, and it made a noise strangely similar to a cat’s purring.

“He’s quite adorable this way,” Arthur observed.

Francis frowned. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s the worst. Aren’t you, Gilbird. I’m going to cook you one day, I swear.”

Giving him a half-disapproving, half-amused look, Arthur pointed upwards at the foremast that stood beside them. About a quarter way up to the top there was a platform big enough for two or three people to stand on. “Say, what’s that thing?” he asked. “I always wondered what those things are used for, and I never got the chance to ask.”

“Oh, that’s called a top,” Francis followed his gaze. “It’s not that exciting. It’s mainly used to anchor the ropes holding the lower mast. But if you look there--” he grinned and pointed at the top of the mainmast, a small distance away from them-- “See that thing over there? The top resembling a cage or a basket? That one is actually used in sailing and fighting, it makes a good lookout point.”

Arthur imagined standing up there, hung between sky and sea. He wasn’t sure if he found the idea more exciting or terrifying.

Francis looked at him, the corner of his mouth curling up, and as if he had read Arthur’s thoughts, he asked: “Do you want to go up there?”

Arthur looked up at the main mast again. “Yes, I do,” he decided. “But not now. Show me the rest of the ship first.”

***

 

First, they went to Francis’ chamber to return the parrot to its cage. Arthur waited at the doorway as Francis tried to make Gilbird get off his sleeve. Despite himself and his manners, Arthur peeked inside. It was a wide room with a homely feeling, decorated richly but in good taste. There was a large bed with simple blue linen, a wardrobe with flowers carved into its doors. The birdcage stood on the desk, beside a pile of books and some paper and pens. Behind the desk hung a landscape painting in a golden frame; it showed a walled port town, viewed from afar, beyond green and pastoral hills. Somewhere in southern France, maybe?

Francis managed to get the bird into its cage and went back to the door. “Come on,” he called, pulling Arthur away from his thoughts.

 

***

 

When they emerged again at the main deck, Arthur’s mind was flooded with new information. The inner parts of the ship were somewhat similar to those he had travelled in before, yet it clearly served a very different function. When the ship was turned into a privateer’s vessel, as Francis explained, the crew fixed in the guns from the former flagship and removed the internal walls below deck, making it easier to work them.

To Arthur’s surprise, it was all very civilised and set in order. Most of the sailors were on shore that day, but some came and went, running errands, carrying boxes and barrels of food, drink and equipment for the ship’s next journey. A carpenter and his mate were attending to the damages in the ship’s body; repairing damaged gear, patching up holes in the hull and replacing broken spars. Every time one of them passed Arthur and Francis by, the pirate captain introduced him to his guest, and they all addressed Arthur in a friendly, informal way.

One of them was the ship’s sailing master. Generously, he showed Arthur inside his office, explaining with a broken, heavy-accented English about the charts and navigation devices. Finding one’s way at sea, he told Arthur, was even more difficult than one may imagine. Determining latitude was simple, and could be achieved by measuring the altitude of the sun at midday and making some simple calculations. However, there was no accurate method of finding longitude; for that purpose, the charts existed, showing the general shape of coastlines and the position of islands. Beautifully drawn as they were, though – here the sailing master gestured at the wide array of maps covering his walls – many of them were inaccurate.

Arthur thanked him heartily when they turned to leave, and the sailing master responded by shaking his hand fiercely and then patting his shoulder, telling him that he’d be welcome back at any time.

Now, at the main deck again, Arthur raised his eyes to the high top of the middlemast. They were standing just below it. It was now lit in the orange, dim light of sunset.

“Do you still want to go up?” Francis asked.

Arthur nodded, even though he was much less sure about this decision now. “Of course.”

“After you, again?” Francis offered. “That way if you fall I’ll be here to save the day.”

“Sounds agreeable.” Arthur reached his hand to the flexible hanging rope. It jolted discouragingly when he took hold of it.

Arthur began to climb. As he made his way up, the wind began howling around him, moving the ladder back and forth just the slightest bit. From here, the setting sun was beautiful. His hands held tightly onto the wooden rods as he climbed.

At some point, he made the mistake of looking down. The wooden deck lay a long fall’s distance below; terrifying as it was, he found himself unable to look back up. Feeling a deep, choking horror spread like ice in his chest, he reached for the next step in the ladder.

“You’re almost there.” Francis’ voice sounded small and distant.

Arthur made a “Tch!” noise and forced his eyes back on the ladder. Quickly, he climbed up the last few steps and pulled himself, with shaking arms, onto the small platform. He collapsed onto it thankfully and lay there facing the darkening sky, his rapid breathing gradually slowing down.

After he calmed down a bit, he turned his attention to his surroundings. The platform, except a small section where the ladder was connected, was surrounded by a low railing, like a little boat floating in the sky. Carefully, Arthur sat up and crossed his legs. The wind was very loud and cold, and as the ship slightly rocked in the waves, Arthur could feel the platform gently swaying from side to side. The view from here was amazing. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the crooked shoreline of Tortuga, with its black rocks and giant trees, the small port and the town behind it. And in front of him, it was only ocean, joining in with the sky in the distance. The sun was almost touching the water, by now, red and dim. The horizon was gleaming with light, like a golden strip circling the ocean, the only part of the sky that wasn’t deep, dark blue.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Arthur turned to see Francis gracefully sitting down beside him. It was somehow startling; Francis just burst a sort of quiet, lonely, sweet bubble that had formed in Arthur’s few minutes up there.

Arthur responded with an almost unnoticeable nod. The sun was quickly sinking down, the sky growing dark much faster than he would have expected. The ring of light around the horizon was growing darker, somewhere between red and purple.

“Gives you a strange feeling, doesn’t it?” Francis asked quietly.

It did. It made everything more – melancholic, nostalgic. It made Arthur feel like speaking quietly, or not at all.

“Arthur, say something,” Francis broke out after a while, a little more loudly, as if trying to break the strange quiet.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Alright,” he tried. “What’s that place in the painting on your chamber wall?”

Surprised at the straight-forward question, Francis took a moment before he answered. “ _Bretagne._ The place where I grew up. It’s a beautiful place. It has huge forests and beautiful beaches and castles and towns, and all of those -- standing stone circles, you know, you can find them scattered all over the British Isles, too… We had one in the woods a short walk from our house… I’m blathering, am I not.”

Arthur shook his head. “Not at all.” He paused. “You know, I’ve only seen them once or twice in my life, those stone circles. I’ve lived in the city for as long as I can remember. I visited my grandfather in the countryside when I was a child -- that’s when I saw the standing stones -- but then, he, you know... He was very old anyway.”

Francis smiled softly. “I guess you don’t remember much of that.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to see such places again…”

The quiet returned, this time heavier. They watched the last sunlight gradually fade behind the horizon.

Francis broke the quiet again. “Since you asked me about the painting, now it’s my turn to ask. You mentioned you’ve been studying literature, earlier…”

“Oh, yes.” He had almost forgotten about that. “I wanted to be a writer, back then.”

“Really!” Francis exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

Arthur glanced sideways at him. “I thought you might have guessed somehow,” he admitted, “since you’ve said: ‘this is a better story than any of any you could back in England.’”

“I didn’t guess anything,” Francis admitted, surprised. “I just -- I’m not even sure why I said that. It seemed, for some reason, like the thing to say. Well, why didn’t you? Become a writer, I mean.”

Arthur shrugged. “A lot of time passed, and lots of things happened, and I guess I just didn’t find time for it. Sometimes I do feel sorry for it, though.”

“You speak as if it’s too late.”

“It kind of is,” Arthur pointed out, lightly. “I already have another job, and I’m supposed to start putting my life together. Besides, I’m not that good.”

“I bet you are that good.”

Arthur frowned. “How could you possibly know that…”

Francis smirked at him. “Write me something, and I’ll be able to tell.”

“Ha, no.”

“Why not?”

Arthur ignored him. “Why did you join a privateer ship?” he asked instead.

Francis raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a personal question.”

“Yours was, too,” Arthur pointed out.

“And it's not as interesting as you imagine.”

“I don’t mind.”

“And it’s going to be long,” Francis added, shifting uncomfortably.“I’m not sure you want to get into that.”

“You’ve no idea how much I do,” Arthur declared with a wide grin, ridiculously enjoying the situation. “Go ahead, give me a _better story than any I could find back at home_ ,” he drew the words slowly, emphasising each one.

Francis stared at him disbelievingly. Then without warning, he shifted his weight, pressing his palm to the platform and turning, until he and Arthur were face to face. “You’ve got some gall, you,” he warned with a voice that could have been threatening, hadn’t his amusement been so clear from his expression. “What if I decided to take you hostage for being so insolent?”

“Then you’d be stuck with me for a very long time,” Arthur replied sweetly, calmly looking back into his eyes. “Since no one would bother to pay the ransom.”

With a curious, amused smile Francis watched him intently for a few moments, before slumping back to sitting. He pulled himself a few inches backwards and leant his back against the railing, circling his knees with his arms. “Fine!” he called, winning a triumphant cheer from Arthur.

“Alright, let me think! I need to decide where to start.” Francis closed his eyes. It took him a few long moments, and the strange quiet of the floating platform began creeping back, little by little, until Francis broke it again. “Alright, here I go,” he announced, and begun.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_I was born in the year of 1610, in a small village in the region of Bretagne (or as you may call it, Brittany), in northwestern France. I was the youngest of four children: Jean, Clément, Marine, and me. We grew up surrounded by beautiful things. Our village touched the seashore at one side, the woods at the other. I spent my childhood exploring both, at first with my second brother and my sister, then, as I grew older, with a few friends from the village._

_I was never too close to my oldest brother, Jean, since there was an age difference of almost twelve years between us. My second brother Clément and I spent long hours fighting and bickering, but every now and then we played nicely together. My sister was definitely the closest to me. Besides being the closest in age, she understood me like no one else did, and since my parents were often away working, she was the one who actually raised me. She was the sweetest, kindest girl you could imagine. I loved her with all my heart, the same way I loved the place – it was my whole world._

_However, as the youngest, there wasn't any work for me at the family’s business when I grew older. I was sent into the city when I turned fourteen, to learn a trade. My parents found, as they said, a respectable and kind boatmaker who agreed to take me as an apprentice, and I ‘should be grateful’. I didn’t want to leave, not only because of the place itself; I didn’t want to leave the only people I knew, my only friends. But my parents weren’t asking for my opinion, and after a terrible fight and – I’ll admit – many tears on my side, I went to pack my little belongings._

_I still had a little space left in my bag after I finished stuffing my clothes. I filled the space with an embroidered handkerchief my sister made me, and a treasure map that I drew with my friends, so that I’ll have something that will remind me of home. I won’t bother you with the sad little details of all the goodbyes._

_The next morning, I got up at first light and took a ride with a trader’s waggon that was headed to the city of Saint-Malo. At first, I hated it. It was grey with smoke and dirt, trapped inside enormous stone walls. For me, it was suffocating. And there were so many people. Just in the street where the boatmaker's shop stood, lived more people than in my whole village, and they seemed alienated from each other as if they lived worlds away._

_As I quickly discovered, my heart wasn’t in building and repairing boats. Though the carpenter who took me as an apprentice was a decent teacher and a friendly man, It was a rough and dirty work, and there was very little space left for imagination. The wood chips lodged into my flesh, and it was impossible to wash the greasy stains off my clothes. After the first week of my apprenticeship, I was terrified to find that my dainty hands have become calloused and bruised. I attended work with no interest or enthusiasm, and my employer grew annoyed and tired of trying to teach me. He began speaking impatiently to me, sometimes snapping at me or shouting. I was constantly tired and my nerves were on an edge._

_However, after a few weeks at the city of Saint-Malo, I found my new love. Boatmaking brought me to a place completely new and fascinating – the port._

_You see, we did have a shore at our village, and a small dock for fishing boats. But the port of Saint-Malo was something else entirely. Here I saw ships that could travel to the far end of the world, ships the size of a castle that could hold a countless number of travellers. I saw fighting ships, terrifying and beautiful, and my heart was drawn to them as if they were the sun coming out from behind the clouds. It became a source of imagination for me, a method of getting far away. I would go to the docks at the end of every day to watch the ships and imagine myself sailing, free as a bird._

_My frequent visits to the port brought me together with a group of children who had dreams similar to mine. We spent our free hours eavesdropping on sailors’ conversations, gathering and sharing war stories, hunting to catch rare glimpses of our heroes...The corsairs, the French privateers. The city was a naval stronghold, partly at use of the French navy, but known best as the home of the authorised pirates. While other cities found them untrustworthy criminals, here the corsairs were admired and welcomed. Privateering gave Saint-Malo its special colours, making it into a storybook town._

_As the months passed, I got better at my job. My body grew stronger, and slowly I caught the techniques of boatmaking, though according to my patron I still had to ‘man up’. The place would never feel like home for me, but with my friends at my side and my head full of dreams, the days were becoming tolerable._

_At the end of my first year at Saint-Malo, I came back home for a visit. The familiar sights and sounds of my village brought tears to my eyes. I treated my parents coldly and distantly, still angry with them for sending me away. I found my old friends, but the conversation with them was awkward and strange, and after a while, I left them. I spent that week with my second brother and my sister, Clément and Marine. Apparently, Jean had left while I was gone – he had got engaged and moved to northern France with his fiancée. It didn’t bother me much._

_One afternoon, Clément, Marine and I went to see the ancient stone circle in the woods near our village. The place was just as I remembered, old, magical, and fairy-tale like. It was then, when I walked from stone to stone, brushing my fingers over each one like I used to do in the past, that I realised how much I’ve changed. I’ve grown up._

 

_I didn’t tell my brother and sister that I wanted to be a privateer. I knew that for them I was still their little brother, a sweet boy with a love for flowers and anything pretty. I tried to make the best out of those days. I tried so hard I started to actually feel like I was back in the days of my early childhood. Almost. It was like acting, reciting a role that I knew by heart. At the end of that week, I left the village with the heartbreaking knowledge that it was no longer the place where I belonged. That night at Saint-Malo, after I collapsed exhausted onto my narrow bed at the attics of the boatmaker's shop, I broke down. I burst into tears and cried earnestly like a child, curled, shaking, until I finally fell asleep._

_The next morning found me with an aching throat and a pounding head, feeling weak and weary. It was more than the crying and loss of sleep – I practically couldn’t get up to work. The boatmaker announced worriedly that I had caught a fever. I stayed almost a week in bed dozing in and out of a restless sleep, barely eating or drinking. The boatmaker took care of me with shocking gentleness. He brought my meals up to my room and sat by my side, encouraging me to eat. He placed damp pieces of cloth on my burning forehead, and even, to my great embarrassment, helped me walk to the washroom and back. It was a side of him that I’ve never seen before. He seemed extremely relieved when I showed signs of recovery, and I found it touching._

_After I recovered completely, I was determined to repay the boat maker's kindness. The next months I worked harder than I ever did before, and for the first time, I actually put my mind into it. Satisfyingly, I was improving fast._

_However, I didn’t forget my dream of sailing. The village was no longer my home, and Saint-Malo, no matter how fond of it I was, could never be my home either. And so, the only hope for me was going far, somewhere entirely and absolutely different. I kept visiting the port each evening, sometimes alone and sometimes with my friends. After a while, I gathered my courage and started speaking to the sailors. Their stories filled me with envy and amazement and fed my growing passion._

_It felt almost painful to create boats that others would sail, and not me. The worst – or maybe, depending on how you look at it, the best – was when the boatmaker and I were hired to repair damaged privateer ships that anchored at the city port. It was terribly difficult to concentrate as those rough, fascinating men walked around us, chatting in their peculiar way of speech, smelling like salt and adventure. I was so full of envy, I wouldn’t be surprised if it showed on my face._

_I didn’t want to leave the boatmaker, but I couldn’t help it. My heart was already far at sea. At night, my dreams were filled with colourful sails and deep blue-green water glimmering in the sun. I thought of the sea endlessly, obsessively, as if I was in love._

_And that way, another year passed._

 

***

It took Arthur a few moments to realise that Francis had stopped speaking, that he wasn’t just pausing before starting a new sentence. It was only then that Arthur noticed how immersed he was in the story. It was unbelievably strange to find himself sitting on the wooden top, in the darkness, with Francis at his side. The deep, heavy quiet was wrapping itself around them like a blanket.

Like a person waking from a dream, Arthur raised his head and turned to look at Francis, questioningly tilting his head.

Francis wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were distant, gazing off to the dark horizon, and in the faint moonlight, Arthur could see him smiling softly. Suddenly, Arthur remembered him saying: “ _Sailing at night – it’s like you’re floating between stars,_ ” and when he looked around and nothing but the pitch black sea and the night sky, dotted with a hundred million stars, he understood perfectly.

“It turned dark so quickly,” Francis said quietly, his voice slightly rising at the end, making it almost a question. “I didn’t mean it to take so long; I didn’t plan to say half the things I did.” He gave a trembling chuckle.

Arthur lingered on his words, processing them slowly. His mind was still drowned in the story that was so abruptly cut off. “That _–_ ” he whispered, his voice hoarse from not being used. “That’s not the end… how does it go on?”

Francis’ smile faded at that. “It goes darker from here,” he said. “And currently, I really don’t feel like… like remembering any of that.”

With a dim ache in his chest and a lack of words to say, Arthur let the silence settle around them for a few long moments. Again, he thought about the strange nature of that silence _–_ constantly broken by the ocean’s breathing, yet as perfect and clear as a polished crystal.

It was cold, and the sea at night was mysterious, almost eerie. Looking into the distance, it felt like he was a footstep away from falling _–_ not down, but forward, towards the place where sky and water met. Arthur looked away from it, and cleared his throat, finally putting his thoughts to words. “It’s perfectly fine,” he said, his voice steadier this time, reassuring. “Let’s leave the rest for another time. It’s easier to think of such things in daylight.”

Francis nodded, biting his lip. “In daylight, far from the ocean, where I can’t see or hear it.” His hands were clasped together in his lap, the knuckles white. Arthur, moving on sheer impulse, reached for his hands and parted them carefully, taking one of them in his own. It was one of those dream-like states of mind where everything moves blurrily, and nothing is strange or out of place.

Francis looked down curiously at their entwined fingers. “Aren’t you full of surprises, Arthur Kirkland,” he observed in a whisper, his eyes glimmering. Then he raised his eyes to finally meet Arthur’s and broke into an unexpected grin. “Let’s get off the top of this mast, shall we,” he said with sudden excitement. “Let’s get us something to eat. Let me buy you dinner, I’ll repay you for all this time I’ve wasted.”

His enthusiasm was catching, and Arthur found himself smiling as well. Unsure of what he was doing, he began shaking his head: “You don’t have to repay me for anything _–_ ”

Then he caught himself. What was he saying?

Arthur changed route mid-sentence. “Of course,” he uttered quickly, before he could regret it. “I’d love that.”

  



	9. Chapter 9

It was an early morning hour. Appropriately for the time, the taproom of the inn at the port was quiet. It was a pleasant quiet, the sort that goes with sunlight pouring through open windows, and a flow of golden dust particles in the air.  
At the moments, only one of the many tables was occupied, by a couple, a man and a woman holding an idle conversation. The man wore glasses, and his expression was serious and composed. He was holding a cup of coffee, and a cello case stood resting against his stool. From time to time he glanced at it or absently reached his hand to touch it, as if to make sure it was still there.  
The woman wore a green summer dress that made her eyes stand out and her brown curls fell over her shoulder. As we already know her, we won’t be surprised to find out that her feet were bare, swinging back and forth beneath the table, and her shoes lay on the floor, forgotten. She leaned against the backrest, her head tilted backwards and her eyes half-closed as she talked to the cellist; they spoke English, the only language common to the two of them, and although they were both perfectly fluent, each had their own foreign accent. They spoke of small things, and got up a while later, him carrying the cello case, her dangling her shoes from her fingertips. They tried to pay the serving girl who brought them their breakfast, but she refused, claiming she couldn’t take the money after all the customers they brought with their performance the night before.  
They left, and the door closed behind them, leaving the taproom empty but for the single waitress. She was the owner’s daughter, a girl with dark brown skin and clever eyes. She was young, eighteen at most. While one may pity her for growing up in a place like the island of Tortuga, and she herself dreamed sometimes of sailing away, the Turtle Island was all she’d ever known. It was beautiful, if you knew where and how to look, and working at the inn wasn’t too bad. most of the customers were kind, if a bit coarse, and she knew how to defend herself against those who weren’t.  
Anyway, it was a beautiful morning, so she hummed to herself as she cleaned the tables from the remainings of last night’s revelry.  
The quiet scene was disrupted when someone entered the room, letting in a gush of wind and the noises of the crowded port. The serving girl hurried to the door to greet the new customer, wiping her hands on her stained apron. The new visitor was wearing a light blue coat and a golden earring, and held a bouquet of bright yellow flowers behind his back. His eyes lit up when he recognised her. “Michelle! It’s been so long,” he smiled warmly.  
“Very,” The girl returned his smile, with a slight hint of shyness, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “When did you arrive?”  
“Huh,” the man looked thoughtful. “The day before yesterday…?” he guessed. He raised his eyebrows. “How is it that I haven’t seen you here in the last two nights?”  
“Bad luck,” the girl replied playfully. “Ain’t working here on weekends. Come in,” she motioned him inside. “Breakfast?” she offered. “Anything to drink?”  
The visitor shook his head. “Sadly, I already ate,” he admitted. “Today I’m just passing by. But how are you? It’s been a long time.”  
“I’m alright,” the girl shrugged uninterestedly. “Same as always. Sit,” she jerked her head at the tables near the bar.  
The visitor sat, crossing his legs. “Anything new at the island?”  
“Well,” Michelle frowned thoughtfully, “A group of Huguenots arrived from Saint Kitts ‘bout a month ago,” she said. “Started building a fort uphill, overlooking the harbor. You must have seen it, haven’t you?”  
The visitor nodded. “Yes, I have. They’re led by one Le Vasseur, am I right?”  
“Mm-hmm,” the girl hummed in agreement. “They say the Spanish are preparing another attack, to take back Tortuga. Got tired from all the raids in the West Indies.”  
The visitor waved his hand dismissively. “They won’t manage,” he said absently, “not with both us and the English controlling the island. But I guess building that fort won’t do us any harm, will it.”  
The girl shrugged again. “I’ve been here the last time the Spanish took over,” she said, her mouth forming a thin line. “Wasn’t very pleasant at all. And then they just left because the island was too small to be of any use.” She made a gesture that was very inappropriate for a girl her age. “Made us go through all that trouble for nothing. Anyway, ‘s good that this time we’ll be better prepared.”  
How old was she, back in 1635? Twelve? Born in a place like this, Michelle grew up in the shadow of such events, surrounded by death. Knowing that made the visitor feel some sort of strange honor toward her; in a way, she was stronger than he could ever be. “You’re right.”  
“Off course, didn’t we agree?” the girl chuckled, unaware of his serious thoughts. Then she clasped her hands behind her back and looked up at him expectantly. “Now, how are you? Any new adventures in the past months? The customers been tellin’ lots of stories, you know.”

The visitor blinked, then laughed heartily. “Oh, it’s always nice to hear that folks talk about me. But I’m sure they’re just telling stories. Winter was rather harsh, most of the time we focused on keeping the ship from sinking.”  
“Is that so?” the serving girl sighed. “They said something about pearl fisheries, and duke Lorrain’s wife. I had my hopes up.”  
“Yes?” the man raised an eyebrow. “What did they say about them?”  
Michelle, again, looked at him with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t remember the exact details, but you obviously stole the pearls that were guarded by a fully armed French man-of-war, and all your crew left unscratched.”  
The visitor winced. “Inaccurate.”  
The girl gave him a questioning look. “Eh?”  
“We didn’t leave unscratched.”  
“So it did happen!” she called triumphantly. “I knew it. Now you must tell me everything.”  
“Oh no,” The visitor laughed. “Then you’ll think less of me.”  
“No, I won’t!” she protested, her expression dead serious. “You must tell,” she repeated stubbornly.  
“Maybe another time.”  
The girl made an annoyed “hmph” and crossed her arms. “I’ll get it out of you, wait and see.”  
“What about the duchess of Lorraine?” the visitor asked, holding back a grin. “What did they say about her?”  
“The duchess?” Michelle blinked, so surprised she dropped her angry expression. “Oh! Well--” she blushed slightly. “You know, you took her hostage then fell in love with her, and she was willing to leave her husband and escape with you, but you knew you weren’t meant to be together… It’s that sort of story,” she muttered.  
“Heartbreaking,” the pirate commented, amused. “So in the end she went back to her husband?”  
“Yes, I think so. But,” she recalled, still flushed, “you gave her a pendant she now wears all the time, or something like that. And of course, she gave you her heart. Did any of it really happen?”  
“Nah,” the man said dismissively. “I’ve never even met that certain duchess. And if I would, I certainly wouldn’t have sent her back to her husband.” He chuckled. “It’s a good story though.”  
“I know many of the sort,” the girl admitted. “The girls tell them all the time. After all, you’re…” she trailed off.  
“A symbol of romance?” he suggested.  
“Yes, that.”  
The pirate grinned widely and rested his chin on his palm. “Chelles, that’s the best reputation a man can hope to have.”  
Michelle shrugged, as if saying, ‘well, if you say so.’ She glanced sideways at the yellow flowers, which he had put down on the bar while they spoke, and opened her mouth to ask a question. Just then, the visitor seemed to remember something, and began patting his pockets. “Chelles, this time I do have something nice for you,” he announced. The shirt pocket proved empty, and the man frowned and began rummaging his pant pockets. Finally his face lit, as he carefully pulled out a small object and held it out. It was a hairpin, a delicate trinket crafted out of smooth green stone. The girl gaped at it, then a wide smile spread across her face, showing dimples and perfect, pearly white teeth. “It’s so sweet!” she beamed, reaching out to take it. “Where did you get that?” as she took the hairpin from his open palm, she used her free hand to untie the ribbons in her hair.  
“The merchant who sold it to me said it came from China,” the pirate smiled, watching her as she carefully put on the hairpin. She looked back at him, delighted. “How does it look?”  
“It fits you,” he replied honestly. “Then again, everything does.”  
The girl seemed satisfied. She gave a small bow. “Thank you!”  
“De rien.”  
Michelle looked back at the flowers curiously. Finally, she seemed as if she couldn’t hold her questions back anymore. “Carmen was here earlier,” she said carefully, “if she’s the one you’re looking for.”  
He followed her glance. “Oh no,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t dare get Carmen anything but red roses.”  
The girl snorted. “Who’s the lucky lady then? Is she staying here at the inn?”  
“Ah.” the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. “I believe it’s not a lady.”  
“What--” the girl wore a confused expression, the realization dawned upon her face. “O--oh!” she covered her mouth with both hands. “Who’s the lucky-- lad--” she said, her voice muffled.  
“I was about to ask you, actually,” the man admitted, “If I would be right to assume that a gentleman named Arthur Kirkland is currently staying here?”  
The girl’s eyes widened even more at that. “The Englishman? The--” she removed her hands from her mouth and held two fingers above her eyes, mimicking a pair of thick eyebrows.  
“God,” the visitor stared disbelievingly. “You’re the worst. Yes. That’s the one.”  
“His room is the last one on the second floor,” she pointed to the staircase, still looking shocked. “At the far end of the corridor. But he’s probably still asleep, or just got up--”  
“I’ll leave the flowers with a note,” he smiled at her, and took the bouquet from the counter. “I don’t have much time to stay anyway. Thank you, Chelles!” he called, and headed towards the upper floor.  
***

Arthur almost stumbled over the flowers on his way out of his room. Luckily, he stopped, surprised, when the glimpse of their bright color caught his eye. Flowers. How strange. His thoughts still sluggish from sleep, Arthur leaned over to pick them up, and noticed a small piece of paper placed on the floor beneath them. He unfolded it, squinted at the unfamiliar handwriting, and read.  
_“Arthur,”_ it said, _“thank you for last evening. Today, to my regret, there are some matters I must attend to. However this evening I’ll be at the inn…”_ here, there were a few scribbled lines that were aggressively erased, as if the sender was unsure of what to write next, then simply: _“If you’d like to see me again. Yours, Francis.”_  
Arthur read it twice just to be sure, and by the end of the second time he was already fully awake and mildly confused, caught somewhere between irritation and flattery--though there was definitely more of the first. Feeling his face heating, he let the note flutter to the floor, giving the flowers a closer look. They were yellow, large and strangely, of a tropical kind he never saw or even heard of. He could smell their faint, sweet smell, and brought them closer to his face, breathing it in.  
Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of nausea washed over him and he gasped, reaching out for the wall to steady himself. His pulse was pounding loudly in his ears, and the world became blurry, darkening in the edges.  
_And he was again in his room in the university, and it was overflowing, bursting with flowers, flowers of all colors piling on his desk and chair, lying on the floor, filling vases and bottles._  
_Giving flowers, what a sweet and romantic gesture, if slightly cliché. Giving flowers to another man, however--that was something else entirely. It was incomprehensible, scandalous, and if anyone heard of it… “Let this be our secret,” that boy had said, smiling with those storybook-prince eyes, and so it was. The flowers were delivered to Arthur’s door every morning for a week, tens and hundreds of flowers, and Arthur never told anyone, never, until now. He guarded them like treasures, letting their sweet scent of spring fill the room until it was too sweet, heavy and overwhelming and sickly._  
Arthur came back to his senses, his breath coming out short and hysteric. His hands were shaking and his knuckles white, clutching the doorframe tightly. He stumbled back into his room, unconsciously slamming the door behind him and collapsing against it, his heart racing. The bouquet fell to the floor at his side. In a strange, detached way he processed the fact that there were only five flowers, not hundreds, and that they were held together with a piece of rough rope and not by rich, thick paper. That the note was short and matter-of-fact, not a long, meaningless jumble of cheap love phrases, and that he was hardly anymore that young, foolish boy who refused to see how the world worked. Gradually, his breathing calmed down, and he sunk slowly to the floor, releasing a heavy sigh. His pulse gradually slowed down.  
And as soon as the panic left him came the anger, red and burning, causing his fists and jaw to clench and sweat wash over him again. First, anger at himself; for breaking down after such a long time that he managed to hold himself together. And at such a stupid, small thing. How shameful, embarrassing. It was only flowers--only.  
And without even noticing, his rage turned outward, to that disgusting, shameless buccaneer--flowers; what an insult, what a foolish implication. As if Arthur were a woman, as if he was a pretty, harmless young boy one could pay to spend a night with. As if they weren’t enemies, as if that damned pirate had any right to eye a decent person like himself in the same level as himself, to even look down upon him.  
But after a while, even his anger was gone, and his mind was left strangely blank, like a wide, empty cathedral with dazzlingly white walls.  
He wasn’t sure how much time passed while he sat there with his back to the door. When he raised his head again it was beginning to rain outside. Slowly, he got to his feet and went to the window. Arthur knew It wasn’t rare in this part of the world, summer storms breaking suddenly on a sunny day. Still, it was strange to watch the raindrops steam and hiss as they touched the cobblestones that were hot from a morning under the burning sun. Arthur listened as the tap, tap of the raindrops grew into the deafening roar of a waterfall. After a few minutes, the air carried the smell of rain, the smell of home, and the water streamed down the narrow alley beneath his window like a river.  
Arthur spun around, making his way to the door, mindlessly throwing the door open, then slamming it closed behind him. He hurried along the corridor and down the stairs, past the taproom and outside, into the rain. The raindrops stung, stirring him awake, as they touched his bare face and hands, and his legs carried him away, to the far edge of the town and beyond it. Here, the trees offered some shelter from the rain, growing wild and huge and green, covered with vines and strange flowers. The ground was patched with ferns and from all over came sounds of life, of small animals and birds moving around. The branches bent under the rain, crackling and moaning, and as the rain grew yet stronger, water began pouring down between them, washing down Arthur’s face and soaking his clothes through.  
***  
“Excuse me?” Called a voice.  
The serving girl from the inn at the port looked over her shoulder, then gasped. The man in front of her was soaked, water dripping from his clothes to create a puddle at his feet. He didn’t seem to notice, and was pleasantly smiling at her. “I don’t suppose you’d have a vase to spare?”  
“A--a vase?” Michelle blinked. Now that was something. “Let me see,” she glanced around her, beneath the bar and over the tables, then opened the door to the kitchen. She shouted something in French, and a muffled response came. The girl turned to look at the dripping gentleman over her shoulder. “No, I don’t think so, sir,” she called apologetically.  
That didn't seem to take the wind out of his sails. “An empty bottle can do,” he suggested hopefully.  
“That’s an easier request,” the girl smiled at him. She opened a cupboards and reached into it. “Got caught in the rain?” she said conversationally, pulling out a reddish-brown rum bottle. She walked back to the bar, wiped the dust from the bottle with a damp piece of cloth and handed it out to the customer. “You can bring your clothes down here after you change, if you like, and we’ll dry them for you,” she offered.  
The man took the bottle and carefully filled it with water from the pitcher that stood on the bar. “Thank you,” he smiled at her again, “I will.” He turned and walked to the stairs, leaving a trail of water behind him.  
It was only a few moments after he disappeared that Michelle remembered the whole business from earlier, with Francis and the flowers. She allowed a wide, knowing grin to spread over her face, and went around the bar to start cleaning the wet floor.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur walked the darkening streets of the little colonial town, heading back to the inn. The smell of rain still hung in the air, and water dripped from the rooftops and gathered in the holes and sinks between the cobblestones. He was coming back from a meeting with a French navy captain stationed at the island: Arthur was supposed to report to him as soon as he arrived at the island, but the last few days had been eventful, and it had slipped his mind. Today, finally, when the storm calmed down as abruptly as it had begun, Arthur paid a visit to his office.

The meeting did not end well.

Arthur ran their conversation through his mind again, blood still boiling with rage; as always, the best words came to him only after the argument has ended, when it was no longer relevant. But what _was_ that goddamn commander thinking; as if leading a pathetic fifty men’s crew gave him right to behave as if _he_ was in charge of capturing _every_ wanted criminal on the island– Oh, those sodding Frenchmen should certainly learn their place; Not to mention the outrageous way he addressed Arthur...

A shadow fell over him. Someone was blocking the exit of the alley. “Excuse me,” Arthur muttered absently and moved aside to go around him; the stranger moved with him, then opened his arms wide. He bowed his head, a sharp contrast to his derisive grin, and spoke in French. The words had a clear edge to them–a threat.

Even through the haze of his wandering thoughts Arthur realised what was happening. The mist dissolved with a cold shiver, his wakefulness snapping back; he glanced quickly over his shoulder–to find the other entrance of the alley blocked as well.

“What do you want?” Arthur asked, surprised to find his voice steady.

The figure behind him inched closer, while the bandit in his front switched from slurred French to horrible English. “That watch, for starters…” His eyes flickered towards the golden chain of Arthur’s pocket watch, visible at the front of his waistcoat. “Your purse…”

“Hat,” the one behind Arthur added, delicately throwing the word into the air. “I’ll take that.”

The first one paused. “ _Nous discuterons ça plus tard,”_ he muttered. He extended an open hand toward Arthur. “It doesn’t _have_ to be unpleasant…”

Fear stirred and gathered like smoke in Arthur’s stomach. He took in a long, shaking breath, then reached for the watch’s chain. He pulled it through the buttonhole with numb fingers and took the watch out; The bandit at his front followed each of his movements with his eyes, while the other kept a short distance from them, standing three or four meters from his back...

Arthur held out the watch upon a shaking palm. It slipped from his grasp, landing in a puddle and splattering tiny drops of muddy water. Arthur crouched to pick it up, and the man facing him did the exact same, reaching out for the glimmering object…

Arthur smashed his fist into his attacker’s face, feeling the bones crack beneath his fingers; the bandit gave a surprisingly high pitched scream of pain. Arthur scrambled to his feet, swatch clasped tightly in his hand, and fled. He made it to the end of the alley and sharply turned left, shoes screeching and slipping over the wet cobblestones–he very much hoped that it was the right turn. Without looking back he knew they were after him, closing in; but the inn shouldn’t be far away, now…

The street opened in front of him to expose full view of the sea; he turned right, and could now see the lights of the inn and the colourful sign at the front–

A hand caught his shoulder, pushing and making him lose his balance. Arthur crashed towards the ground, bringing his hands instinctively to protect his face. The shock sent a wave of pain through him, and he tried to pull himself back up, teeth clenched tight, but his pursuer slammed him back down. Arthur _heard_ his head skull banging against the ground, and his sight blurred, and although he tried to fought to break free--jerked and twisted and spat--it was hopeless since there were two. The first held him down as the other stripped him of his coat and emptied his pockets, and pulled the golden watched from between his clenched fingers. Then the now broken-nosed bandit cracked his knuckles and knelt to hit his face; against his will, Arthur yelled and turned his face away, so the bandit grabbed him by his hair and did it again; then, it seemed to be too much of an effort, so he got up and kicked at Arthur instead, until he went limp and the world darkened around him, stars dancing in his eyes and the crowd gathering to gloat at his defeat. Eventually the inhabitants of Tortuga took pity on him and stepped in to separate him from his attackers, and he remained where he lay, curled and staring forward, until someone pulled him to his feet and a gentle hand dabbed a handkerchief across his bleeding lip. “Take him inside,” said a familiar voice that seemed to echo from the bottom of a sea, “take Arthur inside, please.” Blue eyes darkened with worry, then Arthur swayed in his place and they caught him just before he fell, and led him away from the noise, towards the building’s light. When he looked over his shoulder he could see Francis’ silhouette, soft under the trembling lamplight, with a shimmering knife held tight to the broken-nosed bandit’s throat.

***

_“They call me hanging Johnny,_

_Horray, Hooray!_

_They call me hanging Johnny,_

_Hang, boys, hang!”_

Francis pushed the inn’s door open, nauseous with bitter anger, and the room went quiet at once.

“He’s up in his room,” Michelle said from her place behind the bar, without looking up, and in the hostile silence her voice rang loudly. “He’s fine,” she added, “as much as one could be after something like that…He needs rest, though.”

“Thank you,” Francis made a faint attempt of smiling in her direction. He treaded up the stairs, aware of all those eyes fixed upon his back, and the thoughts spun painfully in his head.

The singing resumed as he reached the second floor and disappeared from sight of the singing sailors. _“They say I hang for money; Horray, Hooray!”_

Francis cursed. He couldn’t shake off the sight of Arthur’s figure lying like a broken doll on the wet ground, blood tainting his sand-coloured hair. As always, he had arrived too late.

He reached the last door in the moonlit corridor and knocked. Footsteps sounded, then the door opened to a crack, and Arthur’s face appeared. He had a dark bruise blooming up his pale cheekbone, and his lip was swollen. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, not sounding very surprised, and opened the door wide. “Come in.”

Francis shuffled in. He made an attempt to speak, but couldn’t quite manage to do so, with his heart choking him, so instead he held out a small heap that consisted of Arthur’s coat, folded, and the content of his pockets piled atop it. Arthur closed the door, then turned to look at him with a strange expression. He moved with the cautiousness of one who knows sharp movements will cause him pain. “Yesterday I handed you back your coat,” he observed, “and now you bring back mine.” He took it from Francis’ hands and placed it on the wooden table, besides a brown rum bottle with carefully arranged yellow flowers. Francis’ gaze stayed on them.

“I’m afraid I–” his voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “I couldn’t find all of your things. One of the two had escaped...”

“He must have taken the hat, like he said he will,” Arthur gave a crooked grin, surprising him. “Nevermind, I have another one.”

Francis watched him from his place at the door. There was something strange yet not-at-all unpleasant in the sight of Arthur in nothing but a white, open-collared shirt and ankle-length trousers, barefoot, outlined by the window frame and smiling so beautifully. “Arthur, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Arthur’s expression grew serious. He tilted his head in a birdlike motion; “For what?” he asked. “You couldn’t control it.” He quieted for a moment, looking thoughtful, then said: “You know, I watched you from here,” he tapped the window and the glass rung softly. “You almost killed that man.”

It wasn’t a question, but Francis nodded anyway, nauseous again.

“And now no one would dare do it again,” Arthur went on, clearly trying not to smile again.

“I could have prevented it from happening in the first place,” Francis said, “had I announced you under my protection once you arrived…”

Arthur frowned. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, “You had no way of knowing something like this could happen, and in fact,” his voice rose, breaking the dream-like air, “because I came as a messenger from your former employer with a threat of death sentence, not as a guest, so it would have been plain weird and improper if you did that.”

Francis opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur hushed him with a fiery gesture. “I may not know you well,” he said, “or at all but I have a feeling that you’re always searching for things to blame yourself over. It’s getting on my nerves,” he huffed. “Now I won’t pretend I’m not completely pissed of with this accident, while practically every part of me hurts like hell, but it has nothing to do with you. Right now, outside, you’ve done more than anyone could have asked for, and anyway, there’s no reason in hell that you should feel responsible for my safety.” He paused for a moment, then added heatedly, “I’m not some fucking damsel in distress.”

Francis let out a short, surprised laugh, and suddenly found himself blinking rapidly to clear his sight from tears, overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. “ _Non,_ that you’re not,” he said.  

“What’s with that expression,” Arthur grunted. “God.” He pulled out the chair near the table and gestured at it. “Sit, will you,” he said, then walked over to his bed and sat down on its edge, dangling his feet in the air. At the floor near him stood a bowl of foul water, with a tainted cloth beside it; he picked the rag up and dropped it back into the water.

Francis sunk down into the chair, and by doing so, felt as if a great weight had been removed from his chest. “I’m sorry anyway, that it happened,” he said, “and I’m glad you’re safe.”

Arthur gave him that strange look again, then shook his head. “Stop it.”

“Alright.” Francis wiped a hand over his face. “I won’t stay for long,” he said miserably. “I was told you needed rest.”

“Buh. I’m completely alright,” Arthur scowled, “Some carpenter bandaged my side, and the rest of me is not worse than this,” he pointed at his bruised cheek. “I think it’s safe to assume that I will live.” He crossed his arms.

A long, quiet moment passed, in which Francis looked at every possible direction except Arthur’s, aware of his gaze fixed upon him all the while. Faint singing could be heard from downstairs:

_“I'd hang to make things jolly,_

_Horray, Hooray!_

_I'd hang all wrong and folly;_

_Hang, boys, hang.”_

“May I ask you a favour?” Arthur asked suddenly, and Francis’ eyes returned to him at once.

“Of course,” he said, so quickly that it was more of a _‘fcourse_ , “What is it?”

“Can you teach me to shoot?”

Francis blinked. That he wasn’t expecting. “Why, of course. You don’t–”

“No, I can’t shoot,” Arthur cut him off, “That’s not one of the skills they teach you in uni–”

“Hey, hey,” Francis waved his hands defensively. “That wasn’t even what I was going to say.”

“Ah.” Arthur went quiet for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. “What were you going to say, then?”

“You don’t happen to have a pistol with you?”

Arthur shook his head. “I thought maybe I could get one around here, if it won’t cost too much–”

Francis waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I happen to be unarmed right now… aside from that knife,” he tapped the side of his right boot to the left, and a clanking of metal sounded from within, “but I can bring you a flintlock tomorrow.”

Arthur looked as if he was going to protest; then he nodded. “Thank you. That’s very kind…” He hesitated. “I was actually wondering about that. Everyone else I saw here–except the women–were carrying guns or swords. How come you don’t?”

“Ah, that.” Francis gave a little smile. “That’s because I have faith in the Brethren.”

“You have faith in what?”

“The Brethren of the Coast,” Francis explained. “It’s how we call the pirates and privateers in the Atlantic and Caribbean seas. Despite what people think, we hold laws within our society; stealing, for example, is rewarded by grave punishment… And besides that, no pirate would turn against another here on the island; it’s one of the only safe havens we have, and we want to keep it this way.” Then he added, with a tinge of shame, “You and other foreigners who visit the island are not members of the Brethren, so the laws do not protect you. That’s why they dared attack you today.”

“Do you have a leader?” Arthur asked curiously.

“No. It’s more of a syndicate of captains... Some of them have more influence, but no, there’s no actual leader.”

“It’s actually quite interesting,” Arthur said honestly. He chuckled. “It’s like an egalitarian society of law outcasts.”

“Yes, that would be a good phrasing of it…” Francis laughed.

“I just remembered, You gave me a handkerchief earlier,” Arthur recalled. “I still have it here, but it’s stained with, uh, with my blood, so I’ll have to wash it before I can return it to you–”

“Keep it,” Francis said immediately.

“Huh.” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “First flowers, now a handkerchief–I can no longer ignore the facts, you _are_ trying to court me.”

“How couldn’t I,” Francis grinned. Then he glanced at the window, suddenly worried. “It’s getting late,” he said. “And you have to–”

“Alright,” Arthur gave a sigh that turned into a yawn. He stretched carefully. “Am I seeing you tomorrow?”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

Both of them got up from their places, quite awkwardly. They went to the door and Arthur opened it, glancing sideways at Francis as he did so. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur watched him walk away across the corridor. Before he turned to the stairs, he looked back and waved, smiling. Then he disappeared from Arthur sight.

For a moment, Arthur remained there. “ _O the fair sailor lad, he was handsome and free_ ,” he hummed, _“He was wae and forlorn…”_ Then he laughed at himself, and feeling rather silly, closed the door.

  
  
  


 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tavern song was “Hanging Johnny”, a traditional sailor’s shanty, and the song Arthur quoted was “The Fair Sailor Lad”, a scottish folk song (for this one I mixed lines from the first verse and the second).


End file.
